D E I M O S
The moment he opened the door of his own domicile: empty and forlorn, desolate and quiet, the Reaper shut it again. Something about the miserable, hollow, untouched reaches of the threshold made him turn away – the hustle and bustle of the Rathskeller, the vibrant, constant hum of people going back and forth, or the bright, burning flames of the Spark Bird – and then returning to the pinnacle of his own disastrous efforts left a bitter taste in his mouth. He kept himself busy outside instead, rearranging wood piles overturned by either roaming demons and infidels, or the chilling, hazardous weather. Eventually, even these tasks couldn’t occupy him entirely, or push away the thoughts burrowing themselves in his skull, taking root, and so he wandered the rest of the settlements, the streets, the typical routes and shadows he frequented, and then traversed back into the outskirts.
The restlessness ate away at him, and he could hear the hum of you must try in the back of his mind, gentle at first, then all the more insistent as he meandered, attempting to drive himself into a slate of ambition, aspiration, instead of shuffling along through this life. He knew he was wasting it on brooding, melancholic efforts, but sometimes those were the only nuances coiled within, and facing them head-on hurt, smoldered, seethed in his chest.
Eventually, deep through the forest, then along the incline of a knoll, inspiration struck him. Where the snow had melted, thawed, from the slow warmth of the sun, there was a pocket of flowers sprouting: purple in color, strong, determined little things intertwining their way towards the delicate sway of the heavens. He tilted his head and stared at them, struggling to remember, recall, why they’d even be poignant at all. Recognition only came after a sigh and lowering himself down to their level, fingers gliding over the shrub, laughing to himself: lavender, a calming, assuaging, soothing plant. The warrior, destined to slaughter instead of provide relief, had seen it in the gardens of Isilme, had uprooted quite a few in his youth out of pure mischief. The beast shook his head and pondered moving on, except a peculiar idea curved and wound its way in his cranium, overriding the treacherous bends, climbing to the top of the mountainous convictions; whenever his machinations started spinning, calculations snaking, twisting, and turning, it was difficult to pull away from the devilish designs.
He suddenly knew exactly how to repay a favor.
Deimos spent a majority of the morning with his efforts, gathering supplies at his house, including his sled, gloves, and a myriad of shovels, trowels, and tools, and returning to the lavender. He took much care than he had as a boy, digging through the soil to find the roots, then wrap them up in water-soaked burlap until he could transport them to a safer location, patient, diligent, and meticulous, the trademark of his motions and movements. After he’d snagged three or four, leaving quite a few behind to grow in their own chosen area, he began his sojourn back to the settlements, slower, stopping by his domicile one more time to grab a few more chosen pieces, that in his previous haste, he’d overlooked. The beast packed these articles in snow, presuming they’d keep until he arrived at the bakery. For a few seconds, he surveyed the entirety of his sled and everything contained within, hoping it’d be enough to convey the sentiments unsaid. He inhaled sharply, then continued onward, dragging the objects behind him.
He’d hoped to tread lightly, quietly, in the waning hours of the morning, eyes glimpsing over the sun and deciphering where they’d best be suited (in the surge of daylight, rising and reaching, thriving in the pockets of light and rays). The sled, however, wasn’t well-equipped for rocks and rubble, and by the time he arrived at the front of the bakery, there was no doubt in his mind he’d been heard ages before. It didn’t really matter, but for some reason he didn’t want to be caught – fathomed secrets and furtive intentions. Perhaps
