[seasonal event] fell to the top

D e i m o s

Send a heartbeat to the void that cries through you
Relive the pictures that have come to pass

Once – two lives had blended into one, been neither rough, callous, indifferent, or warm; before time spilled and spelled its colossal weight across the span of his shoulders, before the earth twisted, turned, and revolted against all the things he’d known and understood, before death and desecration were a natural part of his hands, before he watched lives, whole, real, tangible beings, become nothing but the earth. Before, before, before was like weighty chant, but not unreasonable: he’d been forbearing to his friends, to his allies, proffering his qualities however they required to be utilized. The General had been a weapon, the soldier had been a comrade, an ally, and the King had been otherworldly and disastrous, a ruin on the summit, destined to continue crumbling for the sake of his country, of his kin, of the people who only cared when he was a means to an end, when he could run the rest of the world into the dust and cinders. Deimos didn’t know what he was now, except crouched along the soil, doing his best to retain some sensation of amends for the way he’d always been. He could’ve easily allowed Jigano to watch him whittle, watch him create, then leave him with naught – but he’d promised Amalia he’d try, and he wasn’t about to back out of a promise, out of a vow, out of an assurance. The beast was never even quite sure how to handle a thank you; he’d always nodded them away, cast them into his mind in manipulative tendencies, small favors and debts, collecting them for future moldings and intervals, endeavors of a time, of a place, when he’d exchanged and traded. Alliances had been easily forged in the same stead – liberation for liberation, repose for repose, when either side knew very well each were ticking time bombs, eager, fervent, ready to explode at the slightest provocation. So he did the same here: a shrug of his shoulders, a nonchalant veneer not betraying the confusion, the muddle, of his sentiments, no utter declarations made or enhanced. If anything, he was spurned and coaxed into further silence, brow furrowing in concentration as he concocted invocations again. Knives had been a bit easier, though whether or not because he enjoyed the sensation of munitions and blades in his grasp, or knew them well enough to recreate them, was beside the point; the enchantments came quickly again, pulsing and pervading along the surface of the loam at his direction and discretion. This basket was lighter in hue and coloration, as if it’d come from birch bark, gray and striped, but the crescent moons embedded within them were entirely white – he wasn’t sure where Jigano hailed from, but the Moon Goddess from Deimos’ old world was a patchwork of mystery, enigmas, and shrouds, not without her swords, her shields, or her armor – served the World’s Edge, the walls and land they’d lost. He didn’t form them in her honor or rectitude (another piece of rebellion and insurrection he couldn’t quite quantify or explain, but existed in his being, bitter and rancorous), but the patterns were clear and vivid, sketched and carved along the wood. The beast glanced up, retreated from where he’d kneeled in the dirt, and presented the basket to the bard, piercing eyes waiting, head tilted, examining, scrutinizing again. “Is this suitable?” For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate