DEIMOS
They believe nothing can reach us
And pull us out of the boundless gloom
And pull us out of the boundless gloom
The inquiry was interesting – made the Reaper consider, calculate, ponder over the measures and means of meetings. Part of the dilemma was that he had been too diffident, reserved, and detached from the moment he entered this world, too haunted from the last, to impart much stock, information, or memories into surrounding circumstances. Instead, he’d brooded. He’d brewed. He’d calculated. He’d stuck to the shadows. He’d claimed nothing and no one, breathing acrimony into the midst and finding no one interested, intrigued, in its bounty – not until later, when he eroded, bit by bit, when he softened, little by little, due to their patience, kindness, and indulgences. And perhaps he’d lost more than he’d ever gained, taking too long, mired in the hollowed ventures of his own making, missing out on opportunities to understand those around him. “I did not,” and if he could recollect anything about her – it might’ve been very brief, couldn’t put a name to a face, couldn’t recite a medic’s hums, croons, or balms. It was a cold and empty feeling, empty, chilling. Out of curiosity, and maybe because Remi wanted to share it, wanted to proffer information in the exchange, he extended his questions. “What was she like?” At the alchemist’s grin, winding and bent, which the warrior took as acceptance of the oats, of the apples, the humor flickered and waned. It couldn’t be the only thing she missed; the unicorn who was once human, but he didn’t say anything else about it, his eyes wandering to the bag, to the fruit, saying naught, watching, waiting, for tolerance, a favorable reception of the dagger.
Deimos noticed many things – Remi’s reluctance to open his palms, a taut fission and fusion stuck in his claws , and then the softening, the eventual release, the carefully guarded aperture; he could understand it, he could comprehend it, the way walls and fortifications built their ramparts upon shoulders, upon ribcages, upon colossal, giving hearts. It changed them, altered them, consumed them, until it was shell upon shell, palisade, bulwark, and stockade, massed together in a seething, reticent statue. He wondered if the man would simply push it aside, have no need of the knife in his palm, worthless when he had claws, when he had incantations.
But the appreciation, the sunshine depths radiating from him gave the warrior pause, enough to tilt his head and examine it – similar expressions Amalia wore when amused and driven into emboldened antics – and dropped his gaze when the whisper of beautiful reached his ears. Nothing he’d ever created had been beautiful; destruction, ruin, annihilation, abhorrence, the stretches and screeches of condemnation, the singsong wail of a blade before hitting flesh and bone – he bit back a laugh, smothered a chuckle. He did proffer a smile that Remi wouldn’t be able to see, before twisting his piercing gaze back up, landing on the unicorn’s hilt, on the polished silver, on the gleam and glow. “Yes, when.” It was a certain measured assurance – presuming Remi’s status wouldn’t remain permanent, not with his pluck, gumption, and mettle. He didn’t know the cause, but there were enough factions and figures amidst these hallowed halls – someone would be able to determine a cure, a requiem of release from the void.
Deimos noticed many things – Remi’s reluctance to open his palms, a taut fission and fusion stuck in his claws , and then the softening, the eventual release, the carefully guarded aperture; he could understand it, he could comprehend it, the way walls and fortifications built their ramparts upon shoulders, upon ribcages, upon colossal, giving hearts. It changed them, altered them, consumed them, until it was shell upon shell, palisade, bulwark, and stockade, massed together in a seething, reticent statue. He wondered if the man would simply push it aside, have no need of the knife in his palm, worthless when he had claws, when he had incantations.
But the appreciation, the sunshine depths radiating from him gave the warrior pause, enough to tilt his head and examine it – similar expressions Amalia wore when amused and driven into emboldened antics – and dropped his gaze when the whisper of beautiful reached his ears. Nothing he’d ever created had been beautiful; destruction, ruin, annihilation, abhorrence, the stretches and screeches of condemnation, the singsong wail of a blade before hitting flesh and bone – he bit back a laugh, smothered a chuckle. He did proffer a smile that Remi wouldn’t be able to see, before twisting his piercing gaze back up, landing on the unicorn’s hilt, on the polished silver, on the gleam and glow. “Yes, when.” It was a certain measured assurance – presuming Remi’s status wouldn’t remain permanent, not with his pluck, gumption, and mettle. He didn’t know the cause, but there were enough factions and figures amidst these hallowed halls – someone would be able to determine a cure, a requiem of release from the void.
They're wrong
