[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

A strange sense of equanimity spread along the surroundings, and he eased a breath, not as rigid, conformed to the olive branch and repose – never quite knowing what to do in those instances, a predilection to chaos, mayhem, and the rush of power, assaults, and sieges embroiled along his form. They were comfortable and familiar: tranquility and serenity held more of a taut ambition in his brow, because if he couldn’t keep himself busy breaking bodies, beings, and souls apart, then he’d be left to his own devices: curiosity, intrigue, and boldness threatening to resurface.  The subject matter swindled its way back to Amalia, however, which meant he’d have to be cautious again, not to trip on a snare, on a landmine, on a contorted wire meant to snag and dive deeper. Amidst the waves of his diversions and undermining tactics, Jigano proffered the way they’d met – sunrise, luxere chanting, the baker and her songs, self-conscious and careful; and while his eyes segmented back to the pebbles, a half-smile entrenched itself along his mouth, a light chuckle escaping. He could imagine her striving to be everything she was capable of, but frightened of taking the first step – how much she’d grown, how far she’d come, since those days of modesty and bashful, uncomfortable stances. He hoped she didn’t feel that way any longer, capable of lifting her head to the skies, the heavens, the stars, imploring her strength and convictions to arise from the depths and fathoms, to burst along the surface. But where she’d asked and inquired about Jigano, Deimos had not – her curiosity perhaps a thousand times more audacious than his own, his often reserved for machinations and meticulous schemes, ruses, where to go, how to act, while she acquired knowledge of everyone and everything. Perhaps he should’ve taken a note from her actions and motives. “And so it all began?” He arched his brow, a little mischief tucked away in the lacerating juncture of his eyes, before focusing on Jigano’s question, segmented right back upon the Reaper. For the moment though, it was light, not overbearing, not overwhelming, not a blistering confession or appeal, and his thoughts wandered back to their first meeting, deep in the Atheneum, because he’d been drawn to books, sliding his fingers down the spines of ancient tomes, aching to find answers to his questions. Reincarnation had been the spark, the sizzle, in his mind, yearning to discover how, why, memories blurred against his mind that hadn’t been his own (mountains and thrones, crowns longing to be discarded, but too monstrous, too hostile, too acrimonious to do anything but howl). What do you want? had echoed through the chambers, bold and daring until the onyx eyes had settled upon him, then there might’ve been daggers in her accusations. “In the library,” he shrugged, the fondness of the recollection stirring a further smile on his face; inescapable. A chance to atone had crossed her lips, and he pondered if he’d maintained it, held it, grasped it since those scattered seconds. “Then I assisted in helping her reopen the bakery,” though he neglected to mention the stone golem threatening to rampage and destroy the entire operation; he and Wessex fighting in the basement, begging for light. “And rescued Rory from some vampire gourds – she cooked them into some scones.” It’d been the first bright burst of acceptance and tolerance, and he lifted his stare to the clouds, to the skies now, half-snorting at the way he’d managed to somehow squander himself out of ruin. For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate