DEIMOS
No fire seemed to be deemed the proper measures, and without his stoic, impassive mask, the pretenses of his disappointment shown clearly on his face. The beast studied the little ember for a moment, before closing his fist, calloused fingers closing back over skin, and it was no more. “My father had flames, and my mother had rivers.” Musings, brief and strange, likely not meant to be voiced out loud, probably part of a mantra he’d begun as a boy or some other simplistic venue in which his mind wandered, eyes not on anyone or anything in particular, the fever pitching and keening and hurling him through other dimensions and timeframes. “And I had -,” death. He didn’t finish the statement, brought briefly back to the present by the Warden, by the Chief, by the friends he didn’t know he’d gained. His jaw clenched in the midst of silence; blinking rapidly, trying to find the boundaries again.
A nod was granted to the notion of blankets, they had their own infernos, and perhaps if they needed it, he could always bring the conflagration closer, larger, bigger, brighter, for the whole infirmary to feel. But Chulane insisted they didn’t need any more, and they would know better about their own world, so he thought he understood – when in reality the notions would never have been there in the first place.
Barely upright, folding over and leaning precariously to the left, he eyed the glass Chulane offered suspiciously. Gaze narrowed and sharpened, almost as if he was his normal self, curling a set of machinations and calculations behind his piercing stare.
Except now he was analyzing if the resin contained the feared, dastardly element.
And when had he ever been afraid of water? An insulting notion, considering how he’d been born next to the sea, had been a part of salt and brine and fortitude since infancy.
Very slowly, very carefully, his fingers closed around the glass and he brought it to his nose; a partial shift of a hound’s nares, inspecting, pondering. It wasn’t a distrusting act, but one borne of sickness and delirium. A bland statement to follow, and then an arch to his shrewd brow when he detected the substance. “I cannot have water.” Then he tried to hand it back, to either Morgan or Chulane.
A nod was granted to the notion of blankets, they had their own infernos, and perhaps if they needed it, he could always bring the conflagration closer, larger, bigger, brighter, for the whole infirmary to feel. But Chulane insisted they didn’t need any more, and they would know better about their own world, so he thought he understood – when in reality the notions would never have been there in the first place.
Barely upright, folding over and leaning precariously to the left, he eyed the glass Chulane offered suspiciously. Gaze narrowed and sharpened, almost as if he was his normal self, curling a set of machinations and calculations behind his piercing stare.
Except now he was analyzing if the resin contained the feared, dastardly element.
And when had he ever been afraid of water? An insulting notion, considering how he’d been born next to the sea, had been a part of salt and brine and fortitude since infancy.
Very slowly, very carefully, his fingers closed around the glass and he brought it to his nose; a partial shift of a hound’s nares, inspecting, pondering. It wasn’t a distrusting act, but one borne of sickness and delirium. A bland statement to follow, and then an arch to his shrewd brow when he detected the substance. “I cannot have water.” Then he tried to hand it back, to either Morgan or Chulane.
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
