D E I M O S
The Reaper had never had much cause for celebration – Isilme had fought long and hard for wars and crusades that went nowhere, smoldering in their Pyrrhic victories – and the stretch of another time, another world, had him lurking in corners, shunning the gaiety, the joy, the exultation. He’d been a guard and nothing more; the only notion expected of him, sharpened scowls and reticent frowns while the rest of the kingdoms sang and danced their suffering away.
Respite and repose were odd, uncomfortable things for him; experiences too limited, the unknown whispering its hallowed mirth back at him. What was he supposed to do? Brooding was rarely permitted amidst liberation and deliverance, and it was likely only a matter of time before he’d shuffled himself to a corner and disappeared into the shadows.
For the most part, he didn’t even want to do that.
Deimos did linger by the entrance a bit too long though, gazing, staring, taking in every segment of the commemoration before deciding on his next course of action. Crowds of people shifted with beatific, wild rings of laughter, smiles etched and sketched across their faces (and the urge to flee conspired its way down into his spine, limbs itching for anywhere but here), flags flying in fields, bunting, ribbons, and streamers exultant in the wind, in the breeze, rapture and reverie enhanced in the course of once-monstrous chaos. Games lined their way down rows of stalls, food, drink (which he might require sooner rather than later), and wide-open spaces beckoned, called, flourished across the grounds while he attempted to decipher their siren song.
Some seemed dressed in their finest, newly-sewn and enhanced, rich and decadent; he hadn’t even thought about wardrobe, wearing the same garments he’d put on that morning, lacking furs when the warmth of the sun had melted away spring’s colder hours. It’d make him easier to hide amidst the glamour then.
He clenched his jaw. He knew he looked stupid there, just standing along the threshold, sizing up the possibilities, the hows, the whys, struggling to align himself with the idea of mirth, joviality, and glee (without all the other things that had brought him some semblance of fun - like stabbing and sieges). His comfort had always been amidst those he knew well, where the guards, fortifications, and ramparts could come down in relative ease – the beast snarled inwardly, and then carved his path into the festivities, as if daring himself to endure and enjoy.
