like salt in the sea

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame With the thank you, the monolith nodded, the edges of his smile disappearing under the strain of so many other nuances collecting, absorbing, in his mind. For a moment, he let it all disperse into silence, focused on the task at hand, at remembering, at memorializing, a woman who’d withstood hardship after hardship, strain after strain, and still managed to live life the way she’d orchestrated, commanded, and demanded – who found her light and didn’t let it dim until it was simply too late. The clay continued to shape beneath his hands and ministrations, concentrating taking over, a pulse and a breath, a beat within an inhale, exhale, so he didn’t forget his own life lessons immersed in the artistic sanctuary. Embedded, immersed, just like the materials across his calloused palms and sculpted along fingers too used to swords and daggers; growing, utilizing, reaching for ways that he could heal, remember exactly what he’d always been. With his absorption in the task, he failed to notice Bastien’s surprise over his other proclamation, save for the wavering of decibels in his voice. Maybe it said too much of Deimos’ life experiences here to not be much bothered by the notion of facing these measure of creatures over and over and over again – a ritualistic pattern of something occurring, involving a dangerous, mythical beast, and having to find ways to conquer. “It was difficult to hit, and could deal a lot of damage.” He had new scars to prove it, where the scales had embedded themselves along his flesh, before he’d ripped them out, before Zuriel had stitched his side back together. A shrug lifted his shoulders, moderate contemplation searing there. “Perhaps, but maybe destroying it had not been the goal.” But what the purpose, motive, and reasoning was other than that, he wasn’t certain. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace