Open this FUCKING DOOR

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Death was familiar; an old friend he’d never greeted with open arms. He’d seen it across the battlefield, swift and sudden, a grasping, clenching tide until everything stilled, paled, became the epitome of silence. It might’ve been a knife or arrow through the chest. It could’ve been the slide of a spear, the guttural spark and gurgle of one last, lingering breath. Sometimes he’d been the one to cause it, a fierce, bestial, barbaric unleashing of rage or wrath, all part of his existence, a feral rhythm to his occupation. Other moments it’d been his comrades, his family, the part where he physically grieved and became an unrelenting, vicious force, but death never listened, never cared, never did anything but watch as one more took their place elsewhere, as souls drifted in quiet, hushed tandem, as they left the world, and so many others, behind. Once, he’d growled and roared against the onslaught, but now, he knew better; no amount of begging, pleading, bargaining, or threatening would matter. The Reaper didn’t have the ability to participate in the soothing ramparts, in the mending overtures; he was just another beast who coiled demise in his grasp, and was worthless to anything else. He was a soldier, he was a warrior, and he was useless. Amalia’s body was in his arms, and no breath shuttered away from her lungs, no inhale, no exhale, no hum of a heartbeat. His jaw clenched, and he struggled with the agonizing awareness and knowledge of it. Another one, the realm seemed to say, seemed to laugh, and what have you done? It was an echoing, haunting code, drumming restlessly against his ears, a cruel, keen blade he could easily turn on himself. Useless, useless, useless the realm started to sing, and he swallowed down the bile making its way up his throat; he wanted to growl, he wanted to flee, he wanted to annihilate something, because it was all he was capable of. The healer took pity on him and gave him something to do; he lowered Amalia’s figure and stepped back briefly, puncturing gaze sliding along rumpled clothing and immobile forms. Deimos couldn’t detect where blows had been taken, where blood might’ve pooled, or who, what, he could blame for the disaster. He had half a notion to interrogate Edrei, but one glance her way told him it’d be worthless, and channeling his rage, his frustrations, upon her would be worthless. Instead, he paced for a moment or two, away from the newfound, infirmary table, and back to the door, ensuring it was shut just as Bastien had, for it gave him a moment to compose himself, to devour the agonizing thoughts and the perishing memories, before striding back to the prone, lifeless figures and the commands uttered by those who could actually do something. Hold her still; he nodded, acknowledged the request, opting to stand on the opposite side of Bastien. One of his hands went to her shoulder, the other to her hip, and he pressed, not hard or forceful, but there just the same, waiting the next set of instructions, to see an entity either brought back to life, or sent straight across Styx. master of nothing place of recoil and grace