like salt in the sea

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame He permitted himself a moment to reflect on other worlds, not ones he’d traced or wounded, but the spiraling wakes of Outlanders alike, sharpened and honed in facets different or alike. Earth, Italy, Venice, foreign words from foreign tongues, beautiful, but not without issues. “What was it like?” Maybe it’d be nice to hear about a beautiful place, instead of a realm rankled and pummeled with trials and tribulations every few days. Deimos had described enough of the Aurora Basin to those not from Helovia a number of times – and the notions, the semblances, kept him deterred, distracted, from the other painful instances contending with the rest of his mind. An occupation of his machinations, rather than where they could seethe, simmer, or tear, hands maneuvering along the clay, confirming and conforming the structure so it could grow, so it could bloom, so it could blossom. Unaware the Sword had dodged a bullet due to his own reticence, he merely listened to the Ascended as he worked, grateful the subject could fade out. The semblance of wanting to join her, to think that she awaited after everything was over, made him instinctively turn his head, stare upon Bastien for another moment, and then steel his breath. Because there’d been a very reckless number of days where, sick, delirious, and sunken into the grief, he would’ve done just that. Sped it all along, plunged, unrelenting, straight into denizens of nothingness. He looked away, and pressed back into the clay, pondering if there were better ways to frame the statement slipping through his mind. “It gets very tiring, watching everyone go before you.” Overbearing, daunting, anguishing. “But, I suppose, knowing they are on the other side is comforting in a way.” That they were without pain, in some semblance of contentment, peace, serenity, and tranquility, no longer burdened with whatever terrible wake or tragedy happened in Caido. “We did not have those sanctities in Helovia.” He’d know – the perished pieces of his bones, spirit, and soul had been honed, resurrected, and thrown right back out. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace