DEIMOS
the ocean does not apologize for its depth
and the mountains do not seek forgiveness
and the mountains do not seek forgiveness
The Sword attempted to fight off another wave of frustration at the notion of the weapons. He wouldn’t be surprised if Wessex had kept the multitudes; and his gaze narrowed, staring at the wall again, clenching his jaw so it feathered. Eventually he simply had to shake his head – over and done with, moments gone and receded, even if the result was stupefying. Nothing to be done now. Bare bones in the midst of survival. Somehow. Someway.
Deimos didn’t recognize the names of those deceased, and so he nodded, giving no emotion. No one he cared about was listed, no recognition granted, and so the nonchalance remained, steeling back over the wakes of apprehension. While it hadn’t meant Kiada lived, there was a glimmer on the horizon. A potential, rather than a crushing defeat. Than a weighted blow in the center of his chest.
He arched his brow at the semblances of spirits, of unpleasantness – though she didn’t go any further, so he didn’t angle the deeper inquiries. Best to leave it aside.
She rounded back to the desk, and his eyes fell to the ground at the laugh, muffling another snort. He didn’t expect an apology in return, gaze lingering on documents. He’d taken the role on, but with reluctance, with the dread, the feeling, of too many ghosts, too many moments parsed in ruthlessness, in unrelenting fury, in parallels of haunting, disastrous wakes.
No, he’d never yearn for it. Never had.
Another nod then, acceptance, before he turned, shifted, back to a diagram, presuming everything else was in the clear. “I took some time to sketch out a potential design for a road, if we intend to have the portal open next Deepfrost.” Whether or not it would be good enough, or feasible, had swung along thoughts too – but he lifted it her way: covered bridge ramparts, braziers on the inside and outside, long eaves to guard away the cloaking of snow.
Deimos didn’t recognize the names of those deceased, and so he nodded, giving no emotion. No one he cared about was listed, no recognition granted, and so the nonchalance remained, steeling back over the wakes of apprehension. While it hadn’t meant Kiada lived, there was a glimmer on the horizon. A potential, rather than a crushing defeat. Than a weighted blow in the center of his chest.
He arched his brow at the semblances of spirits, of unpleasantness – though she didn’t go any further, so he didn’t angle the deeper inquiries. Best to leave it aside.
She rounded back to the desk, and his eyes fell to the ground at the laugh, muffling another snort. He didn’t expect an apology in return, gaze lingering on documents. He’d taken the role on, but with reluctance, with the dread, the feeling, of too many ghosts, too many moments parsed in ruthlessness, in unrelenting fury, in parallels of haunting, disastrous wakes.
No, he’d never yearn for it. Never had.
Another nod then, acceptance, before he turned, shifted, back to a diagram, presuming everything else was in the clear. “I took some time to sketch out a potential design for a road, if we intend to have the portal open next Deepfrost.” Whether or not it would be good enough, or feasible, had swung along thoughts too – but he lifted it her way: covered bridge ramparts, braziers on the inside and outside, long eaves to guard away the cloaking of snow.
for the space they take
and so, neither shall I
and so, neither shall I
