DEIMOS
The question had meant to signify joy, amusement, or some other form of emotion: and maybe Deimos had been mistaken in that regard. His ties to homes had always been rooted, fortified bonds. The mountains were in his soul. The ocean was in his blood. The crash of waves against rocks in his ears. The chilling air in his lungs. The sea breeze piercing his eyes, stretched over his abyss. He defended them with every step of his being, carried them in the breadth of his figure. They weren’t forgotten enamels or portions of the past, but living, breathing extensions of how he’d grown, how he’d existed, how he’d prospered, how he’d ruined. Maybe Torchline wasn’t any of these things for Remi. Maybe it was too new, too fresh, too nothing. Maybe he simply didn’t think that way, didn’t moor or anchor his flesh to worlds. Maybe they didn’t call to him in dreams or nightmares. So he nodded, uncertain what sentiment crossed over his own existence then and there, as his attention meandered along the pool, or across the teasing edges of the sea.But there were agreements in always something, always someone, always a lurking faction beyond their depths. Who Remi had snagged and smothered and diminished beneath his wake wasn’t the Sword’s concern either; but he twisted his puncturing gaze back to the Alchemist, leveling it on him, a snort billowing through on the last statement. He almost said he was quite human, but the current form he was in would’ve ruined that immediately. Instead, he merely shook his head. No, never on that front. A lift of his wings as if to shrug flickered and followed. Let me know if you need anymore. Guidance, support, assistance; incapable of counting how many times the other man done so for him.
"who's gonna let you?"
they asked. i said
"who's gonna stop me?"
