fine in the fire

Deimos Deimos had been wounded often; a soldier’s plight along the battlefield. His skin was marked and notched with various scars, some from opposing blades, some from passing arrows, some from simple bludgeoning gone completely awry; but he wore them proudly, signatures and namesakes of survival, of being bent, whittled, carved, and sculpted, but not entirely broken. He’d stood and lived, he’d maintained and endured, he’d fortified and become more so that when the cry of war drums and the seething animosity of an adversary pressed against him, he shoved back, ignored the bestial scorn of his senses, until later, later, later, when they could be treated and sent back out to the slaughter. It repeated now. He hadn’t even noticed at first, too intent on giant flinthoppers, dragging dry debris from fiery husks and holds, and then flinging companions and strangers over the inferno’s edges to really give a damn about his own wellbeing. Thereafter, tucked away at home, he’d peeled off the layers of his clothing to reveal holes and a subsequent burn along his left shoulder, singed, bubbling, boiling; seared at some point in the melee. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have cared – continued on with his daily rituals, ducking it in a bucket of water and cooling it off, but after some time, the pain returned, simmering, smoldering, igniting, causing him to growl, to hiss, at the slightest movement. He took great care in selecting a light article of clothing, so perhaps the material wouldn’t catch on the angry surface, before wondering what to do next. He had no intention of alarming Amalia, or frankly, telling anyone in particular – leaving his house and shifting down towards the temple, with its infirmary in the back. It wasn’t makeshift field tents staged amidst the backdrop of a barbaric plain – tipping his head in, quietly shutting the door, revealed quiet, wooden rooms, a study, likely stocked with something to assist in the healing process. He had too many things to do to be laid aside by a damned burn (and it riled, coiled at his senses, to be his father’s son and marred by the very elements he once enamored). Seeing no one nearby, perhaps occupied by other patients, he rapped his knuckles on the closest wooden panel, a call to attention, to his appearance. Then he shuffled inward, emboldened and incredibly inquisitive, leaning to poke his head into the nooks and crannies. Out of sight and out of mind Make everything alright So let the sky and sea collide Just not in our lifetime