DEIMOS
The rampant frustration wasn’t towards her, but all the multitudes pressing down against his shoulder blades, tightening down the bones and notches in his spine. It was a cumbersome contempt for how the world had sharpened and inclined, jaw clenching, muscles feathering beneath his beard. A long-suffering sigh filtered and flickered out of his lungs, until he couldn’t be still any longer, and placed the blade, the whetstone, and everything else back into his bag. Belial tilted his head, and Deimos could offer nothing but that empty, hollow feeling of vexation; barbing and nettling under the skin. It will not be like this forever he wanted to say, wanted to offer, wanted to place in between the newly-laid thorns. But all he could surmise was a nod, rising from the log, not even glancing at the fire.
Wondering if all they were doing was going to be for naught anyway.
That steely determination strived to glide back through his movements, placing the container back over his shoulder, conceding to her request. “Sure.” Perhaps he’d make his way back through the maze, and allow the warren to take hold of his exasperation before they returned to the shelter.
{FIN}
He was something solid
to lean against
violent and fierce and unmoving
