[PQ] Long may you run

DEIMOS Delivered from the blasts Hello, sweet ones coiled along his senses, for it had claws and barbs, nettles and thorns, and he shifted his head rapidly back towards the voice. The beast expected some sort of menace and mischief, it was the same woods that had taken their companions, the same woods that had promised them pits and sepulchers. The problem with the current decision, and he’d be quick to agree with Samuel, was that they were likely going to be led to the aforementioned hole, and then shoved directly into it, joining the others, destroying hopes of rescue and contemplating another course of liberation. The dilemma was rigged further in that none of them had a map, Ianto, or anything else to lead them to where they wanted to go – who was to say their next sojourn wouldn’t land them right back where they’d started all over again – a colossal waste of time? Would they be dead by then? Seriously injured? Would the deliverance mission even matter then? The Reaper weighed their choices, and he might have been more meticulous, more scrupulous, if given more opportunities and options. They could turn around and go home, empty-handed and harder hearted, capable of leaving behind those they considered comrades and kin. Or they could follow the spirits directly into the gaping maw of the Fae, coaxing them onward, friends waiting, caught, snatched, because they dared to explore, and they’d dared to follow them. If Deimos had only himself to be concerned with, not Amalia, not Kiada, not anyone else currently sitting in the void, then he might’ve turned around or disregarded her invitation, aware of the trickery, the deceit, the specious, duplicitous world they were about to embark within. It was desperation drawing him forward, and he knew it. He turned towards the others, a look of apology stuck in those usual piercing eyes, as if he understood the foreboding weight on all their shoulders, and willingly bore it (always would for them). Then Deimos nodded his head, foolish and stupid, towards the Fae. “Lead on. Thank you.” If the rest didn’t want to go, and who would blame them, the warrior would go on by himself. the last of a line of lasts