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**Deimos** · 04-24-2019, 08:53 PM

D E I M O S

This was a different ~~Rory~~ – no longer molded in his acrimonious, caustic outline. He seemed dampened and diffident, the smoldering fumes doused and flickered out, and the Reaper puzzled over the complexities, completely uncertain of where to go or what to do in this situation. Were it another plunge into riots and subversion, he could stay his course or simply leave, watch the flames eat away sense and sagacity, listen to the brutality, the mob mentality, streak and simmer along the horizon. But after everything, the semblance of death, devastation, and sudden, overwhelming freedom, it didn’t seem to matter anymore. All that was left were the crumbling, jagged pieces of wounded prides and wary glances, the after effects of plunging knives and wild, horde emblems, their flying banners. Deimos could’ve uttered any number of things then and now, how the Outlanders had strived and tried, how they had been dragged from their beds, from their sojourns, from their death knells (his; lingering on the earth and waiting for something to completely consume him, so he wouldn’t have to watch everything else fall apart in his hands), how they all hadn’t attempted to disregard the Naturals and their compassion, their beneficence. He could’ve proclaimed how grateful and appreciative he was of each and every one of them, who’d assisted him, who’d guided him, who’d directed him away from ignorance and self-loathing, who’d given him something to do besides brood and brew.

His eyes glanced away, stared at the bubbles billowing by, but not truly seeing them. His mind was occupied by the mess and shambles left on the Spire’s wake, slithering into these confines, and what he should do about it. The warrior presumed some snarled and seethed, some forgot it happened, and some acknowledged the regrets, the rues, coiling in the air, the ether. Which path was he meant to take? If a bridge was burned, was he supposed to assist in rebuilding it?

(The past echoed and bounded; cold, cold, and cold, betrayal a bestial sound in his lungs, in his ears, rampaging until he was a seething maelstrom - never again embedded in his chest, glacial king on his summit tired and tired of losing.)

So the soldier listened, as he was forever apt to do, gifted not in discourse, but concentrating, attending to the sights and sounds available to him. Rory’s speech wasn’t what he expected – carefully considered, nearly a calculating endeavor. Maybe he’d already practiced on others, proffering his omens and ultimatums, his wrath or animosity, his defensive vindications.

But memories of another world may not have justification in this one – they had faults, they had flaws. Hadn’t they seen Deimos lurking in the shadows, and still given him a chance? Why couldn’t he be just as accepting as Rory had been of him? The piercing juncture of his gaze swept back to Rory and his tankard, willing to give another chance, a subtle nod, an acknowledgment, an opportunity, less apathy, more curiosity hovering there. “Go ahead.”