DEIMOS
Heave the silver hollow sliver
A master of silence and composure, his eyes simply took her in: read emotions and sentiments lingering across attempts at a hushed demeanor. Her facial features were loud, fragments going from one rumination to the other, so he tucked his chin in his hand, and waited. For a moment, the soldier thought he’d pushed too far, tread along lines either hastily drawn, fabricated, not recognized at all, or simply unwanted. Had it been a foolish inquiry? Maybe she had a myriad of other commitments waiting in the wings, on feathers and plumes, on starlight and sunsets, on baked goods and merchandise to be sold, delivered, the following morning. He grimaced inwardly, should’ve thought better of merely springing it upon her; and for one so meticulous, so detail-orchestrated, it should’ve have dawned on him just now. But he stared at her widened eyes, the aura of surprise, and hovered, the answer pervading somewhere in the midst, pondering if he should have kept himself busy in the quiet, instead of remaining, witnessing segments of color rise back to her cheeks. He didn’t tell her he hadn’t done this in eons either: permitted others in, in, in, or presided in vulnerability, letting another soul breach his senses.
Deimos was rewarded for his patience with wonder and delight and hope thereafter, absorbing it all with the lightest of smiles grasping his mouth, the reply more than he could ask for – a reverent divulgence, followed by the arch of his brow, tender inquiries going unvoiced as onyx lanced on blue, then shifted away. “I would not mind.” He didn’t tease her that he’d been the one to ask, that he’d extended the invitation without a single regret. His Cheshire grin was enough of a ruse, a taunt, a goading, a provocation, meant to wield her back into fervency and ardor, instead of the impasse they were suddenly immersed within.
If he appeared confident, it was a farce, a pretense, a barrier to his inadequacies and poor, social graces, once brutally, barbarically cold, thriving on voids, on hollowed shells. No one stayed with the Reaper and no one ever seemed to crave it, not after –
The mountain rose from his chair, returning to dishes and any other materials he’d left out. What now – a question engaged in his mind because they’d probably marched along the steps all wrong, never remotely domesticated, wild and savage and feral and ignorant to all these other footfalls. Once everything was in the sink, he turned his head back over his shoulder, studying her, utterly disbelieving in what he had – undeserving, unworthy all over again. “When you are ready, then,” was all he could come up with – the uncertainty clawing at him, not sure, not sure, not sure.
Unite and spread the heart apart
