DEIMOS
Heave the silver hollow sliver
Deimos’ last moments with his parents hadn’t been strained – they’d been expected, the art of growing up and forging out on his own, promising to write from campsites and beneath ivory tents, after training exercises, in between barrages and sieges at the front. His father’s boisterous, bombastic influence and persona had brandished him with a warm embrace, massive pats on the shoulders, bright, lilting grins he could never hope to replicate. There’d been pride instilled amidst those infernos, and when he’d turned to his mother, the quiet, hushed platitudes emerged from her presence, a shield drawn in front of her features, as though she’d been afraid to lose her son to the foreboding storms. He’d assured her, in all those youthful, arrogant drawls, that he’d be fine, that he’d be safe, and he’d see them again soon – that he loved them, that he’d miss them – and something about the finality had never even dawned upon him until he walked into the vacant world seasons upon seasons later; when they were already gone, tarnished, and desecrated. So his eyes, full of their own ghosts, phantoms, and wraiths, cloaked and smoked in blue (like the tides, like the currents, like the bottomless fathoms he once wished would just swallow him whole), turned towards hers, confident and assured. “I am certain she knew you loved her.” Family was family; even when the seams appeared frayed and damaged, even when there were pieces broken off and chiseled away. He hadn’t always seen eye-to-eye with his mother. The same could be said for his father. But it was everything underneath the callous words or the acerbic intonations, the protection, the love, the persistence, the affection – he was always safe with them, no matter how ridiculous, no matter how dumb, no matter how foolish. He would’ve died for them, if he’d ever been given the chance.
That was how he existed: protection and guard, living blade, sword, and cutlass, taught from an early age to find each and every advantage, to utilize its brutality for his own purposes at any cost, to ensure those he cherished remained whole. He had no shame or regrets in it – only if he didn’t do enough, if he wasn’t enough. Her vow reverberated along the threshold too, and his eyes, once distracted by the smoldering grouse, riveted back to hers; took the pledge and smiled. They were in accord then – armor upon affection, armor upon love, armor upon dedication.
At her instructions, he checked the oven he’d turned on earlier, ensuring it was molten enough for the incoming food. He nodded, watching as the mix filled the pan, the intricate leaves and flowers finding their way to the upper layer, adorned and decorating – despite the fact that they’d eventually be devoured. He ensured the oven door was open, gloves extended to intercept the pan, and placed the food within, tilting his head to listen to the instructions – knowing it was completed by smell and hue. “What to do while we wait…” He snickered, pointedly not looking at her, as if it were an absent-minded thought, hardly voiced out loud.
Unite and spread the heart apart
