DEIMOS
Heave the silver hollow sliver
At her offer, he only arched a brow. He was not one to recite pledges or prayers to celestial beings – his faith was reserved for people, for individuals who sparked, inspired, or provoked him to stay at their sides, at their backs, before their prowess. They were the ones he guarded, he fought alongside, he protected, he defended; vows and assurances melded to their cores, presences, and entities. The gods had little to do with any of it – he liked to believe his commitments, his achievements, and his strengths were his own, and not dictated by their designs and orchestrations. “I will listen,” he tilted his head instead, the small grin still there, before leaving her to the praises, appeals, orisons, and devotions, acceptance and acceptance and acceptance, allowed to believe in his notions, and she adhering to hers. But he did pay attention, concentrating on the words she proclaimed: Vi with life, Safrin with stars, Mort with flickering, falling suns, Ludo, leading souls, Rae on tomorrows, Frey and worlds blooming, Caido, for the earth. While he dried dishes, placing them quietly, carefully, on top of one another, so the clinks and clangs didn’t resound, reverberate, or echo across her murmurs and croons.
While she spoke, his mind wandered primarily to Helovian gods, the ones he could recall, proud even with their cracked shrines and decimated disciples, the ones who’d embodied each kingdom, the ones who craved oracles, the ones who gave and took. God of the Moon, dark and enigmatic, capable of orchestrating others to do her bidding (murder). God of the Sun, wild and caustic, mercurial, burning at the seams. God of the Earth, gentle and just, lending them information and assistance. God of the Spark, keeper of the Basin, tempestuous, snarky, and combative. Some to be revered, some to be detested. He’d done neither, really, except grind or grit his teeth at their blasé’ insinuations, at their detachments, at their affairs; wishing they’d leave them all alone.
There’d been others in Isilme, but he’d forgotten them now – little fragments and sparks of war and incisions on their tongues – didn’t glance down upon him when he pleaded and begged, so he ceased talking to them too: a cycle he was damned and doomed to repeat.
Upon her announcement that she was completed, his attention deviated back to black eyes and slight smiles, placing the last dish on the counter, intending to put them away later. “Done.” A light grin finagled its way back to his face, a challenge in the air, a way to diminish the apprehension, returning to dares, summoning visions of chases amidst renewals. He started walking towards the stairs, aloof, detached, appearing nonchalant, before uttering a proclamation and uncoiling long limbs up the steps. “Race you!”
Unite and spread the heart apart
