REXANNA
i was born with a knife in one hand
“Psyche ruled, though Mauja was in and out.”
She hears and ponders it, not knowing who Psyche was but recalling some stories long and hidden down dusty trails. Mauja, however, at least brings a picture to mind. And she wonders what changed with the freckled man from the Basin to the Edge, and how he had changed as a person. Was he different from how Deimos had interacted? Different from the man she remembered herself? Still, she nods in understanding even if she didn’t entirely. Was it similar to when Thranduil ruled alongside Deimos, a hidden thief in the night, in and out much the same. Did Mauja have a purpose like that?
The questions drift from her mind as she focuses in on Deimos’ capture, a frown crossing her pale face as she studies his own. How he had been trapped as a prisoner for several weeks. And gods how she could relate. She wonders if she’d ever told Deimos in their previous life the trials she had faced in Halyven. How similar their stories were at points, how hewn they had become from the rock face of the mountain peaks. How the fire within them were much the same, friends and soldiers for something more.
But where Rexanna had escaped her prison, Deimos had not, and her frown deepens as he maneuvers the piece in his hand. She wants to reach out and touch him, to comfort, yet she refrains. She knows him, knows the way he doesn’t like comfort in such a way. And so she chooses to do it with words when his tale comes to a pause. “It’s not your fault for being captured.” She tells him, because she had wished someone had told her the same about her own. And she gives him a small smile at the thought to try and lighten the mood. “And you had come back home.” She offers, because nothing screamed home to her more than the comfort of those winter peaks.
“I was a prisoner too, in Halyven. Forced to stay in the dungeon of my ex husband for six months I think.” She sighs heavily, reaching down to pick up the edge’s piece, transforming it with her transmutation magic into a castle with black and red walls from flame and blood, a menacing tower that came to jagged points. “It is not easy.” Her gaze slips from the piece to his face, to the same icy gaze she remembers. “What did you do after you came back?” She asks, though she’s willing to expand on her own previous experiences if he desired.
She hears and ponders it, not knowing who Psyche was but recalling some stories long and hidden down dusty trails. Mauja, however, at least brings a picture to mind. And she wonders what changed with the freckled man from the Basin to the Edge, and how he had changed as a person. Was he different from how Deimos had interacted? Different from the man she remembered herself? Still, she nods in understanding even if she didn’t entirely. Was it similar to when Thranduil ruled alongside Deimos, a hidden thief in the night, in and out much the same. Did Mauja have a purpose like that?
The questions drift from her mind as she focuses in on Deimos’ capture, a frown crossing her pale face as she studies his own. How he had been trapped as a prisoner for several weeks. And gods how she could relate. She wonders if she’d ever told Deimos in their previous life the trials she had faced in Halyven. How similar their stories were at points, how hewn they had become from the rock face of the mountain peaks. How the fire within them were much the same, friends and soldiers for something more.
But where Rexanna had escaped her prison, Deimos had not, and her frown deepens as he maneuvers the piece in his hand. She wants to reach out and touch him, to comfort, yet she refrains. She knows him, knows the way he doesn’t like comfort in such a way. And so she chooses to do it with words when his tale comes to a pause. “It’s not your fault for being captured.” She tells him, because she had wished someone had told her the same about her own. And she gives him a small smile at the thought to try and lighten the mood. “And you had come back home.” She offers, because nothing screamed home to her more than the comfort of those winter peaks.
“I was a prisoner too, in Halyven. Forced to stay in the dungeon of my ex husband for six months I think.” She sighs heavily, reaching down to pick up the edge’s piece, transforming it with her transmutation magic into a castle with black and red walls from flame and blood, a menacing tower that came to jagged points. “It is not easy.” Her gaze slips from the piece to his face, to the same icy gaze she remembers. “What did you do after you came back?” She asks, though she’s willing to expand on her own previous experiences if he desired.
and a wound in the other
