DEIMOS
Deimos paid attention to histories, because they often repeated themselves. Some gesture of legend wove itself around others, some made the same mistakes as those before them, some attempted to conquer what couldn’t be vanquished. But he also tended to mire, to root, himself into those past trials and tribulations, lingering in the footholds of things that were treacherous and deceitful, bringing those motions forward here, and finding them lacking. It’d been vexing when attempting to assimilate into another culture, another region, another world entirely, but he’d committed to it – listening, listening, listening to the ways this earth worked. Remi’s words stung perhaps a little more than the Sword expected – that their intertwining of layers, of all the lacquer stuck between them along the Grounds, had seemingly dissipated. Too many events, too many other pathways, too many dreaded cataclysms had worn bonds thin or unfurled them entirely. Others stretched out their wings and flew as far as they could. Some perished. Yes to the inquiry, though the uncertainty of how to answer thereafter clung to his mind. Instead, he coaxed an inaudible sigh to be swallowed down, to embark around instead of through. How do you find Torchline? A place to escape? A place to start anew? Or another thing altogether?
That Remi’s loathing spiraled between all three didn’t surprise him: the Reaper had been much in the same. Not incapable of reason, and not prone to impulse, but the abhorrence for other kingdoms had driven him to bloodshed, to calculations, to vicious, unwinding violence, time after time after time. Victory had been satisfying, but vengeance all the better, as if crushing another beneath his feet, or upon his sword, had been everything.
Which was why he’d probably been so lost, for so long.
He didn’t know Remi’s past, and wouldn’t ask. It was not his business. He could only remark upon his experiences, share, and relate, so perhaps the Alchemist wouldn’t find himself in the same echoes and throngs. I used to do the same, though not as impulsive. Here was a light notion of amusement through the bond. I would seek to destroy any enemy we had. But even if that happened, there was always someone or something else. It never ended; a cycle, of rising and falling. No time to rest, to sink into repose: only disaster, only ruin, only devastation.
"who's gonna let you?"
they asked. i said
"who's gonna stop me?"
