DEIMOS
They believe nothing can reach us
And pull us out of the boundless gloom
And pull us out of the boundless gloom
The Reaper watched the smile turn softer, sadder, melancholy bouts flickering up through the abyss. He rarely permitted his own to cast away, broaden or burden his features: gone were the days where his face could be an open book; too much ruin, too much annihilation, too many lost, broken things. He was vigilant in his nonchalance to certain extensions, hidden where Remi was open, coiled and contorted where Remi was unfurled, allowing for the world to see past vivid dimensions. Deimos avoided vulnerability and fragility because he knew what could come of it – but he listened, didn’t mark it as weaponry, as future swords and perils, thought about healers and their craft. He’d come across many a medic, the Time Menders capable of wielding back hours and minutes and seconds until only a scar remained, one of hundreds, field doctors rushing into the onslaught, carrying out bodies, and then unfurling them back into the fray the moment they were deemed healthy enough. There were different levels and layers, different care, different impacts: how she’d come to be in this aspect, taken and absconded, then placed back into another form, another species, entirely, was another notion. He didn’t ask how she’d died, how she’d been mottled and reformed, how she’d been christened into something else. “Sounds like an impressive being.” A smile managed to linger around his mouth, eyes cast off elsewhere. “I appreciated her efforts in the cave.” He would’ve been gone. He would’ve been nothing again. A life so easily snapped, no matter how persevering, persistent, or enduring. It prickled against his skin. It ruffled his edges. It seared and blistered, schemed and scathed on his flesh and bone. Ridiculous, to have been so weak.
His eyes caught the tufts of feathers, plumes rise against the blade; another shifter, another Attuned, which would make sense between Amalia’s connections and the alchemist before him (did he contain everything then: capable of wielding and changing and altering?).
He studied and examined again, as if Remi let him, understood the necessity for scrutiny and meticulous efforts: no healer, no mender, not even a soothing, assuaging individual – more apt to find weakness in chinks of armor and devising ruses to make the wounds that much more binding, aching; but not to Remi. While one was nearly all pale, not a smidgen of color, reminding him of the alabaster snippets of the moon, but here there were no craters, cracks, or rocks, plastered, alabaster ruin – the other hinted at more color, more hues, more blending convictions and contradictions. The damage was done though, at the hands, at the talons, of the Fae who’d led them down into the village. The beast stifled a grimace, a frown, churning his smile back to where it belonged, darker and darker still. “Arduinna,” he began, tilting his head, leaning back to allow the alchemist space again, his scrupulous study done for now. “Was the one who led us into the Fae Village. So we could get our friends back.” So here was another blistering inconsistency, except there was an invisible binding in place – and he pondered if eventually, their eyes would be milky and colorless too, or removed altogether. “Now we owe her a debt.” But he didn’t ask what had caused this particular incident – just instituted, just explained, just hinted that there might’ve been more ruin to come; he didn’t allow the shudder in his shoulders to dissipate any further down his spine.
Yet, Remi kept himself in good humor, in good graces, at least here, now, in the present, in the moment. Deimos would have blistered and seethed, a terrible, contemptuous melee, back to brooding, back to brewing, where Remi merely seemed to accept his fate. The Reaper was resistance personified, while the rest of the world seemed to breathe and ease into their kismet. “Of course. Let me know when you are ready.” The beast allowed the smallest of laughs to quake again, as the dagger floated – courted mid-air.
His eyes caught the tufts of feathers, plumes rise against the blade; another shifter, another Attuned, which would make sense between Amalia’s connections and the alchemist before him (did he contain everything then: capable of wielding and changing and altering?).
He studied and examined again, as if Remi let him, understood the necessity for scrutiny and meticulous efforts: no healer, no mender, not even a soothing, assuaging individual – more apt to find weakness in chinks of armor and devising ruses to make the wounds that much more binding, aching; but not to Remi. While one was nearly all pale, not a smidgen of color, reminding him of the alabaster snippets of the moon, but here there were no craters, cracks, or rocks, plastered, alabaster ruin – the other hinted at more color, more hues, more blending convictions and contradictions. The damage was done though, at the hands, at the talons, of the Fae who’d led them down into the village. The beast stifled a grimace, a frown, churning his smile back to where it belonged, darker and darker still. “Arduinna,” he began, tilting his head, leaning back to allow the alchemist space again, his scrupulous study done for now. “Was the one who led us into the Fae Village. So we could get our friends back.” So here was another blistering inconsistency, except there was an invisible binding in place – and he pondered if eventually, their eyes would be milky and colorless too, or removed altogether. “Now we owe her a debt.” But he didn’t ask what had caused this particular incident – just instituted, just explained, just hinted that there might’ve been more ruin to come; he didn’t allow the shudder in his shoulders to dissipate any further down his spine.
Yet, Remi kept himself in good humor, in good graces, at least here, now, in the present, in the moment. Deimos would have blistered and seethed, a terrible, contemptuous melee, back to brooding, back to brewing, where Remi merely seemed to accept his fate. The Reaper was resistance personified, while the rest of the world seemed to breathe and ease into their kismet. “Of course. Let me know when you are ready.” The beast allowed the smallest of laughs to quake again, as the dagger floated – courted mid-air.
They're wrong
