wash away our sore eyed souls

D e i m o s

Send a heartbeat to the void that cries through you
Relive the pictures that have come to pass

Even if no one wanted to hear them, reassurances were all he had. He couldn’t account for their experiences, he couldn’t fault them for their trials, and he couldn’t muster a way to fix anything. The Reaper was useless, worthless, into these idle parameters and bleak moments, just another presence in the bakery, taking up space and air, listening as Jigano strived, as Kiada attempted. Perhaps they’d simply played the wrong game this time, thought to move mountains when it should have been hills, thought to seek shelter when they should have watched their backs; and it would be a lesson, a trial, a tribulation, sinking and simmering into their bones. He was caught out of the miserable connotations, however, by Kiada’s slurred speech – his eyes riveted on her, a quick perusal, a swift study, concluding she couldn’t hold her liquor. There was a notion to snatch the remaining bottles out of her grasp, taking hold of his and downing the dregs, but by the time he’d finished, it was much too late. Deimos has a unicorn now blurted from her rambling tones and then all the other revelations after: a landshark gnawing at his flesh until it’d peeled back skin, sinew, and flesh, marrow exposed, the short grasp of defeat shuttering over his munitions, the notion that the end had come again and he’d simply been too stupid to see it rampaging towards him on light and earth. He took an instant to glare at her shit-eating grin, to truly embody the decadent, enigmatic pathways of the Reaper, king of the mountains, stones, and secrets, before lowering his gaze entirely. He’d never been one for being the center of attention, for imploring everyone’s fixation and riveted stances in his direction, content to hide in the depths of shadows, satisfied when he’d accomplished his tasks. It was Amalia’s reaction that made him truly wince, sheepish, disheartened, the concern and apprehension back on her features as he dared to look up. “I did not think it was an appropriate time.” The warrior shrugged the event off, because the details had already been proffered into the evening’s air, and there wasn’t much else he could provide – between the sorrows and deity disappearances, they’d all had enough of armaments and battle scars for the day. He was used to keeping everything to himself anyway, bundled and coiled and tethered to his chest, to his essence, to his soul, but apparently, amongst friends, they expected some form of the tale. His stare briefly lifted to Jigano, almost a plea, but it didn’t matter. There was no saving him from the endeavor, Amalia’s hands on his arms, apprehension on her lips, a sigh floating into the threshold. “After I left the Spire, I went to summon Safrin, as you asked.” They all must’ve known she hadn’t come – he’d been on the ground, kneeling like a fool, bleeding into the soil. “Kiada came and would not let me return to get all of you.” He arched a brow back at her, but then his stare dropped, recalling the remaining chords. “I was ignoring her request when a landshark came across the land, chasing a unicorn. Kiada and I went to fight it off. We were…moderately successful.” If by moderate, he meant that the Harpy had dug into its skin, and he’d thrown a knife, and then a blade, and it hadn’t been enough (like always, like forever, like eternity). “The landshark attempted to gnaw my arm off. The unicorn healed me.” Then her gilded head was on his chest and he felt so foolish, so inept, so utterly incapable. Her words trailed off but they were enough to stab into him – lacerate and cut, bludgeon and devastate. But maybe now was the time for something light-hearted, a way to ease the torment floating into their lives – his hands tugged on hers, and his head was raised again, a question for all of them. “Would you like to see her?” For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate