who we are and all that we're trying to be
Without the affliction reigning over his figure, his soul, there was enough work to be done, committed towards, before the season ended. Deimos could ignore his mourning, or reach alongside it and pluck it away, store it in his bones, in his soul, for another moment in time – contemplating very little now save for the actions required amongst and amidst the mountains. It was nearly a normal thing to consider, as if he’d gone back lifetimes, to where movement and motion revolved around summits and stones, peaks and valleys, caverns and warrens. Had he been stronger then, or far more formidable now? Difficult to pinpoint, hard to say – so the thought drifted away, and back to the task at hand.
For now he maneuvered portions of lumber, pieces he’d already gathered out of the Greatwood in one of his moments not scattered, not torn, by the sickness – left scattered by the wayside, along the edges of town, where he’d first dropped them off. He’d likely been distracted or deterred by something else, incapable of finishing the job, before being able to split them and deliver them to various places along the Citadel. It could’ve been anything, given the latest turn of events, but he adhered into his promises, vows, and assurances, grabbing hold of his ax, and beginning the long-since practiced contortions of swinging it overhead, and descending it towards the wood, listening to the crack as it broke through.
Zuriel rested nearby, legs curled up, utterly indifferent to the smooth cadences of noise. Maybe she found herself capable of getting rest now too, where he’d been cured and the probability of him wandering off in lunacy and delirium decreased significantly. He only arched a brow at her once, before shrugging off the motions, grabbing hold of two pieces of timber, and placing them into the wagon nearby; the maneuvers repeated, over and over, cyclical and soothing.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
