You learn to speak so calmly

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame His eyes refused to go to the portrait – he couldn’t endure some all-knowing look upon her face right now, some justifiable snicker, or a semblance of betrayal. He could imagine it too clearly for himself, and so his jaw clenched, his brooding fixtures remained, and he went to adhere to Bastien’s task. Stacking chairs wasn’t any hindrance, but the motion, movements, and something resembling a goal, however minuscule, was better than an alternative. Hands grasped the seating venues and placed them upon one another, maneuvering them along to a corner of the room, repeating the process when the stacks became too high. It would’ve been routine work and nothing but some ashen memories to swallow him whole, but Bastien insisted on conversation – not Deimos’ forte. We never know what we have until it is gone stung down his shoulder blades and up through his spine, because the monolith had lost a great number of people, places, and things, and couldn’t ever regard something as infinite. It was why he grasped and held and clenched and tried to hang onto the undulations of time – but he’d yet to master or conquer those elements. “Then you get up and keep going,” reverberated on a deep rumble; perhaps the only thing he’d ever managed to do efficiently – to rise again after falling; an accomplishment that became more and more difficult each moment it had to be rendered. Sometimes it was easier to be the ashes and soot, rather than the incited embers. "Rexanna always did." master of nothing place; of recoil and grace