DEIMOS
They believe nothing can reach us
And pull us out of the boundless gloom
And pull us out of the boundless gloom
Haven’t we all bristled against him, but he didn’t comment. He didn’t tell the alchemist about the sinister intonations of the things he’d lost along the way here, of the lives dissolved and disappeared in his hands, of the lacerations corded and roped along as scars, of the people he’d loved and cherished and watched fall apart. It was just an acceptance, a sad, lonely reverberation of the way life was, how it’d molded, how it’d shaped, how it’d sculpted them into the present. He failed to pry any further, had no intention of asking how many other sacrificial alms Remi had laid out within his worlds, eyes sliding downward, cast on the ground, then flicking up, glancing at the oats, the apples, and the dagger dangling in mid-air – controlled and contorted by magic, connections sizzling, fuming, pluming upon the ether.
Then the piercing slate of his gaze was back upon the blinded one, listening to his laugh as it mocked the fiendish lands they existed within: danger and treachery a constant, no matter where they seemed to go. Peace and repose was something they could barely wrap their fingers around until it was gone again; he knew, he understood, he comprehended, the blistering, nefarious Reaper with his scathing heart and ravenous predilections. On the inquiry though, his attention was riveted, caught, and tethered: he’d long since pondered how he’d acquired a newfound magic, because he’d never been able to create or concoct anything before. Not water like his mother. Not fire like his father. It’d always been death knells and a draining of breaths, of heartbeats, until everything was silenced. “Yes. Though I am limited,” he answered, waiting for something else to fall. Advice? Skepticism? Was it not enough? His gaze lingered back on the dagger, on the unicorn embedded on the hilt.
Then the piercing slate of his gaze was back upon the blinded one, listening to his laugh as it mocked the fiendish lands they existed within: danger and treachery a constant, no matter where they seemed to go. Peace and repose was something they could barely wrap their fingers around until it was gone again; he knew, he understood, he comprehended, the blistering, nefarious Reaper with his scathing heart and ravenous predilections. On the inquiry though, his attention was riveted, caught, and tethered: he’d long since pondered how he’d acquired a newfound magic, because he’d never been able to create or concoct anything before. Not water like his mother. Not fire like his father. It’d always been death knells and a draining of breaths, of heartbeats, until everything was silenced. “Yes. Though I am limited,” he answered, waiting for something else to fall. Advice? Skepticism? Was it not enough? His gaze lingered back on the dagger, on the unicorn embedded on the hilt.
They're wrong
