after fury
what do you do
Deimos hadn’t been born patient – it had carved and curved its way over him after the frivolities of youth, and gangly teenage years, before he was set back multiple times by instructors, and learned to value the art of composure. It had whittled its way into his form as they stood along battlements, as they marched towards ramparts, as he watched enemies and adversaries advancing, biding his time until he could strike. Some could abide by its measures. And some never would. He muffled the slightest laugh at Aisha’s insistence of not being able to wait, of not being able to conjure or tolerate the sensation of delay. He rose from his seat along the kiosk, lifting the box, placing it beside the aperture as Zuriel spun along snowflakes outside. “When I first arrived, I helped with anything I could.” His strength had come in measures and machinations, his brawn a wielding procedure and process in opening up stores, bakeries, shops, and anything else he could get his hands on. He’d wanted to stay busy, to find something other than dragging himself through moored melancholies, disastrous fates, and haunting, poignant memories. Then he fought stone golems. Waged minor battles in Spire basements. Nearly died through several processes. Wandered through the Greatwood after sacrificed friends. Had no issue in instigating and flaming rebellions. “Magic works wonders, but so will the new shifts you obtain,” and he said that lightly, the ghost of a smile on his lips, as he put away other materials he’d left out on the table. “The more you do, the more likely you will find somewhere to fit.” To call her own.
with the remains?
DEIMOS
