Hang hallowed halos

Deimos “You used to,” he added to her good judgment line – days filled with ardent intensity and a devilish enthusiasm, contributing over and over again to the Basin’s fortune: favoring the bold (her). What altered and changed? Had it been her time in the Edge, when her mother had taken her children from the mountains, hoping to settle along the crag and cliffs? When Tembovu had proffered promises that he never could quite keep? When her brother disappeared, changing courses and actions? He threaded his way over the silent stones and the marbled moss, quiet, a hunter’s predatory instinct, eyes fixated on boughs and branches, before turning back to her, slowing down his stature, his pace, his stride, so they were side by side in their questions and answers. He’d missed something after his death – tucked and walled away in his tomb, becoming bones while his soul apparently drifted elsewhere, no longer capable of looking over his favored summits and glorified inhabitants. He killed everyone so… Yes, there were some chapters he hadn’t been clued in on; hadn’t read, hadn’t known. The Rift held a heady note in the beacon of his mind, a warped edge to his skull; but he was ignorant of it. Rexanna had never described it to him. No one else from Helovia had measured their way over here, and no fallen stars or triumphant, gleeful will-o-wisps had ever informed him of horrors, devastation, or repose settled amidst such a world. By the way she said it, the tone almost melancholy, he seared on the knowledge of disparities along the despaired; traces and foundations he had no part in, no contribution towards. She’d morphed and sculpted into something, someone else, since he had first met her – but that was to be expected, the blossoming of a child with their radiant fixtures and their brazen designs, scalding and whittling away until something else occurred, happened, chased down ramparts or smoldered at the fringes. “You did not.” But then again, he’d never told her every story of his past either, and had no intention of doing so; furtive and secret, cloaks and daggers, too many tales to warrant. If she wanted to tell – he was all ears. It was for her alone to decide; not a beast who pried (because then the rest of the earth pried back). Out of sight and out of mind Make everything alright So let the sky and sea collide Just not in our lifetime