we're all killers
Remi’s didn’t need to impart anything more: Deimos understood the rest of the sentence, the declaration, the old wounds of dying lovers and friends burning against his soul. There was an utter helplessness to it – no one in control of those scattered, lacerating moments, the rising hope that something could cure it, that they wouldn’t be lost forever, that this was just another passing illness, a frayed thread, a strand to be cut away. Sometimes, in the end, no matter what one committed, what one tried, what one strived to do (kneeling in front of a shrine, howling and begging, pleading, please don’t let her die, please cure her), it fell upon deaf ears and eyes; and there was nothing all over again. He swallowed down the clawed response, the promise, the conviction, the vow that Ronin would be fine, the blight would be destroyed, and there would be new disasters to overcome. He’d already told Jigano that he didn’t build his frameworks and convictions on hope; they’d be on plans, on predilections, on their own versions of upheavals and sedition. The beast said nothing instead, just a firm nod of cognition and knowledge, the determination corded around his throat.
They shifted back to the masks, where they weren’t so damned lingering and lost. Ah, earth had been more of the missing links – Deimos incapable of wielding and controlling those materials. It made sense that after some time, the crafts had simply failed, lacking the appropriate invocations. “Yes,” his voice rippled in accord, and at the indication, the beast followed through. Moving his empty glass and making space for the enchantments, he brought his hands together and then pulled them apart: in place of the absent ether was the gilded glow again, surrounding and transforming vacancy into clarity, four of the same masks he’d managed to cultivate within the Spire. “One extra, in case,” the mountain shrugged, the slip of a smirk resting on his mouth.
They shifted back to the masks, where they weren’t so damned lingering and lost. Ah, earth had been more of the missing links – Deimos incapable of wielding and controlling those materials. It made sense that after some time, the crafts had simply failed, lacking the appropriate invocations. “Yes,” his voice rippled in accord, and at the indication, the beast followed through. Moving his empty glass and making space for the enchantments, he brought his hands together and then pulled them apart: in place of the absent ether was the gilded glow again, surrounding and transforming vacancy into clarity, four of the same masks he’d managed to cultivate within the Spire. “One extra, in case,” the mountain shrugged, the slip of a smirk resting on his mouth.
DEIMOS
