DEIMOS
They believe nothing can reach us
And pull us out of the boundless gloom
And pull us out of the boundless gloom
Perhaps he and Remi were more alike than they realized, on the rough, boyish grin, on the intonations of danger and destruction. More often than not, especially lately, Deimos had been running straight into trials and tribulations, rather than casting a diffident, detached eye upon them. Once, he would’ve calculated and measured his abilities against shadows, onslaughts, and terrors, staked his claim upon them, or evaded; cold, chilling, the king with only his land, his compatriots, his kin in mind. Now, he seemed to have leaned into impulsive, ridiculous statures, and he wasn’t sure how to delve further into that mess. He’d never lingered into the impetuous; and so it clawed its way back to him, reminded him he was nothing.
But then the amusement died away, the question he longed to take back circumventing, hitting and ricocheting off of memories and spaces. How bowed his head apologetically, even if Remi couldn’t see it, perhaps he could sense the regret and rue; but listened just the same. Deimos knew Ianto – briefly, from saving him amidst flames, from legends churned over debts and repayments, for layers of warnings chiseled (and then ignored; because that was apparently who he was now – ignited and incensed, grave and grim when it concerned his friends). He didn’t know much of the fox’s story, but being bound, being subservient, made sense in regards to his tactics and motives. “So in the end, it did not matter.” He finished the sentence for him – the Reaper, the beast, mulling over thoughts and clenching his jaw thereafter, a taste of bile soaking, dousing, his throat. This was likely only a small fraction, a piece, of what they could, or would, eventually face. His voice grew softer, not so deep, not so guttural, but a remorseful exhale. ”You have made quite the sacrifice.” And hadn’t they all, at some point, in some way, throughout this world – meant to do it over and over again, because they were compelled, because they cherished, because they endeavored to do something greater, something more?
But then the amusement died away, the question he longed to take back circumventing, hitting and ricocheting off of memories and spaces. How bowed his head apologetically, even if Remi couldn’t see it, perhaps he could sense the regret and rue; but listened just the same. Deimos knew Ianto – briefly, from saving him amidst flames, from legends churned over debts and repayments, for layers of warnings chiseled (and then ignored; because that was apparently who he was now – ignited and incensed, grave and grim when it concerned his friends). He didn’t know much of the fox’s story, but being bound, being subservient, made sense in regards to his tactics and motives. “So in the end, it did not matter.” He finished the sentence for him – the Reaper, the beast, mulling over thoughts and clenching his jaw thereafter, a taste of bile soaking, dousing, his throat. This was likely only a small fraction, a piece, of what they could, or would, eventually face. His voice grew softer, not so deep, not so guttural, but a remorseful exhale. ”You have made quite the sacrifice.” And hadn’t they all, at some point, in some way, throughout this world – meant to do it over and over again, because they were compelled, because they cherished, because they endeavored to do something greater, something more?
They're wrong
