they found your bones

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame History repeated. Not in the same formations, but in the scheme, the theme. Maybe he should’ve seen it coming, instead of putting his head down and forging into work, into assurances, into strength and accord. Should’ve lifted his gaze away from snow and stars, and to the incoming, ominous dominion. Should’ve realized how little time they’d had. No more ice to encompass their stares, no more unwinding tundra to place their feet upon, no more rime to watch, no more peaks and valleys and mountains – and somewhere, in the midst of all that coiled anguish, beat a Basin heart contorted in rage. It didn’t show on his face. Not the stoic brand of his calling, not when he was guiding others into safety, not when his occupation would forever read warrior and soldier, even if titles could be stripped from him over and over and over again. But it lingered in the towering Colossus of his wake, it slithered and slid through his blood, it beat against his bones in wrath, abhorrence, and contempt – war outcries and days of refugee antics, pressed and solidified into caves. The memories pierced and conjoined, until maybe he didn’t see the forest, the canopies, the leaves, but just simplified derision, bitterness clustered behind his teeth and tongue. Reserved for chosen individuals. They’d known and they’d said and they’d predicted, and still, Deimos had always thought better of Morgan. Her alliances, incredibly flawed, skewed, and ridiculous, had all shaped into accord, emblazoned on the horizon, with all the promise of death and demise to her own. And that would be what crossed the line each and every time – no better than the Voice, or the Wraith, themselves. In another time, another moment, he could blend all those thoughts through, fissure them amongst other friends, family, and comrades; but for now, it all blurred together in his eyes, reaching out for shelter, to become immersed in a world of safety for those who no longer had it. With just the clothes on his back, companions at his side, bag of his shoulder, he moved behind leaves and ferns, intending to be another refuge in the storm, striving to eliminate the shaking in his hands. Head not down, for he refused to sink, but scrutinizing, examining, watching every footfall, every twist and turn of a frond. Into the woods instead of the mountains, a reversal of time and expanse that he didn’t want to slide over now. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace