who we are and all that we're trying to be
Patterns; Deimos could work in methods, sequences, of the past – requiring little thought beyond the application of his task, almost routine, almost habitual, almost certain - and it was all he could rely upon now. Muscle memory honed from a mischief, a favor, a token of appreciation once sheltered in secrets and silliness, something to savor and recall when everything else was in shambles, a mess, a mockery of everything they’d sought to accomplish. Lives extinguished, gone in a flash of doors or darkness, drenching down souls who’d only sought to shield, to protect, to ensure those souls remained.
His movements weren’t quite the same as before – though he tugged his cart filled with herbs, buds, and flowers he’d dug out of the ground, fields, and woods, this time it was pulled by teeth, by fangs, by massive hound maneuvers across fields, tracks, and paths. An alteration in their stances from before – purposefully attempting for something amusing, rather than burdened with the melancholy of the past weeks. A step forward, instead of constantly reeling backwards into the burdens.
A long howl extended from his throat as he coasted by doors, announcing his presence along the afternoon sun, expecting her to be somewhere in the confines of the bakery, absorbed in her work. The Sword likely should’ve been, but his attention had been elsewhere, dragged and mired and moored through misery, and he preferred this to any other actions at the moment. There weren’t any contented strides or savage paces to his fervency, just the need for movement, the need to do something other than collecting his nonchalance, or wallowing, brooding, into the ether.
He dropped the line along the cart, and then perused around the garden, pondering the best places for the miniscule flora he’d snagged. He wouldn’t know the names or uses well (had asked someone with far more knowledge of herbs), but presumed Amalia would: lilac, chives, basil, thyme, and other assortments. Eventually, the hound came to a specific area, and paw began to dig into the freshly-thawed earth, claws angled in precision.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
