DEIMOS
Heave the silver hollow sliver
As a warrior confident in his own abilities, the mountain rarely saw fault in believing in one’s self – on some measure, an individual had to admit capability to even accomplish a task, a feat, in order to triumph. A soldier didn’t wander onto the battlefield in hopes of winning, in hopes of surviving: they trained, they prospered, they became breathing weapons, unhinged muscle memory, carving up swarms of enemies with practiced ease. Wasn’t it the same for her? Wasn’t it the same for everything she’d accomplished? He’d rather see her boasting, assertive, and assured of her role, of all the things she’d managed to instigate, unravel, and provoke, than lingering in self-doubt. She should’ve been like fire instead of ashes and dust; seething embers, provoked and incensed, than the endless worries and anxiety. The thought coiled along his sentiments and nuances, a little hum and endeavor stoked in his machinations; an unsaid goal of the fiend. Strength, he wished and yearned and longed for her to see – because she had it, but didn’t seem to recognize the worth, the sun, the beams.He’d pull away hesitations, the clouds, and let her see.
Glancing back as she answered, with no preference, he was intrigued to find she’d managed to procure a tablecloth (he didn’t know he’d even owned one), napkins, plates, and utensils, likely scattered in amongst weaponry he’d haphazardly placed along drawers (for quick upheavals, if the rest of his munitions were elsewhere). The beast stifled a chuckle, at the warm presentation, at her at his table, in his chairs, the picture of comfort and indulgences he never thought he’d have. He embedded the image in his mind, in case it never came to light again – and then pushed those binding notions out of his head; too used to precariousness, to uncertainty, to tenors of peril and precariousness. It was why he savored and relished, capturing things before they could slip out of his grasp.
He missed her adoration, turning, busy contemplating the right response to a seemingly boundless wake. In the end, he allowed a pot of tea to brew, waiting for it to hiss, as he went about collecting everything else: settling the pieces of pie on their plates, watching the steam curl, and then placing a bottle of wine in the center, as an afterthought. When the pot finally announced it was ready, he turned his back to her again, sly and surreptitious, hands glowing only for a moment along the counter, until a mug formed beneath his hands, pristine, white, except for a pattern of stars along the rim. He poured the tea into the cup, silent, setting it along her designated place, before finally sitting down himself, in naught but a towel and a small, indulgent smile. It slowly chiseled into a smirk as they dug in, as he thought of an opportunity to strike. “So – why were you late?” For there was bound to be a story (and he wanted to tease and taunt again, just a little).
Unite and spread the heart apart
