DEIMOS
And after ventures, after explorations, after tides of other things potentially haphazard, there was a slow, residual return to whatever their settled earth had become.He didn’t want to call it home. That name was reserved for mountains pressed into his blood and rising beneath his soul, for frozen bones and stern, dominating summits. And he could pretend for multitudes that it could’ve embodied it for a time, these makeshift shelters, but they both knew better. Not with Noah gone back and forth, not with the ebb and flow of other occurrences already shaping and whittling away at the notions, calls to arms, to motions brewing on the horizon.
But for a time he didn’t have to wallow or sink into the bitterness. Neither of them had to.
So Deimos stood at the door of his own cabin, arms folded, gaze upon the bed of soil unused and disregarded up until this moment. A calculating air had already progressed, contorting without mercy in the breadth of his mind – though without barrages or sieges, without blades and armaments. His voice eventually rang out towards Cordelia, head tilting as he surveyed, examined, and scrutinized the possibilities. “What do you think about a garden?” Jutting his chin and jaw forward towards the open expanse; awaiting her approval or dismay.
You aren't afraid of throwing yourself
in the path of danger
but you're terrified of letting anyone in
