DEIMOS
ache first, but then let the cuts close
spit out the blood
spit out the blood
Deimos considered the warriors, the people, of Halo much his own; and so the line of grief persisted. Faces and names and families affected because he hadn’t prepared them enough, or hadn’t been capable of calculating every route and possibility of what they were about to face. He put their memories in the back of his mind, and made a quiet, silent promise to ensure the rest of their blood were taken care of, that honor was bestowed when the pyres came to rise and rise and rise into smoke and ash and dust. “Okay,” he offered again, trying to accept the bombardments all at once, barely aware they were pressing into his home – as if he were someplace else, clouded and foggy. Murky and draconic.
Her touch on his cheek didn’t startle or rattle, but brought his attention back to something resembling the present – gazing at her, then the hearth, then Zuriel, and Belial, clattering together in a rolling force of emotions that he could only breathe through. Saw them, felt them, heard them, but couldn’t quite reach them in the moment; one hand enclosed over the Evergreen’s like a tether and a line.
Sons dead before they arrived (how?) were a whisper and preparations that had been a balm against the woes, the trials, echoed vaguely, stare scattering and the modicum of fault lines threatening to drum and beat upon his mind (not enough such a familiar refrain he’d memorized the tune). “Thank you for taking care of them,” came on a guttural rumble, deep in his chest, something to be said in multitudes when he wasn’t full of fatigue and anguish.
Next motions were habitual and routine, nodding at her suggestion. He first peeled away his coat, stuck to other layers by blood and blood alone, sleeves jagged and half-torn by a dragon’s teeth, revealing portion of the once-wound along his arm – for that had been healed, leaving its scar and memories in place. His hands went to hang it and thought better; for it wouldn’t make it any further either, dropping it to the floor so he could burn and discard it later. “You too,” he joked with a modest smile, habitual, concern back in his gaze amidst all the other wraiths.
Her touch on his cheek didn’t startle or rattle, but brought his attention back to something resembling the present – gazing at her, then the hearth, then Zuriel, and Belial, clattering together in a rolling force of emotions that he could only breathe through. Saw them, felt them, heard them, but couldn’t quite reach them in the moment; one hand enclosed over the Evergreen’s like a tether and a line.
Sons dead before they arrived (how?) were a whisper and preparations that had been a balm against the woes, the trials, echoed vaguely, stare scattering and the modicum of fault lines threatening to drum and beat upon his mind (not enough such a familiar refrain he’d memorized the tune). “Thank you for taking care of them,” came on a guttural rumble, deep in his chest, something to be said in multitudes when he wasn’t full of fatigue and anguish.
Next motions were habitual and routine, nodding at her suggestion. He first peeled away his coat, stuck to other layers by blood and blood alone, sleeves jagged and half-torn by a dragon’s teeth, revealing portion of the once-wound along his arm – for that had been healed, leaving its scar and memories in place. His hands went to hang it and thought better; for it wouldn’t make it any further either, dropping it to the floor so he could burn and discard it later. “You too,” he joked with a modest smile, habitual, concern back in his gaze amidst all the other wraiths.
watch your body pull itself back together
then let your soul do the same
then let your soul do the same
