DEIMOS
the reaper
He watched the aura of contentment and productivity along the bakery, the hum and reel of movement, listening to the reverberations cast by her lips with another sensation of dread – eyes catching the apron she wore, emblazoned and molded from his hands, his magic, the notebook out, open, lines scrawled across pages, manifestations of their little nuances and assurances with one another. Revulsion and disgust contorted along his mind, to think that he was about to ruin the buoyancy and exuberance surrounding the threshold, that he was going to alter moods into condemnation instead of light, instead of cheer, instead of serenity. He had already disturbed the tranquility just by being here, mountain and shadow, shoulders pressed and weighed down by the impending topic and distortions; the way the earth shifted and turned in rapid, rapacious rhythm. At the love, adoration, and affection reflected on her features, his heart twisted and turned, the nefarious chambers and sinister angles flickering away from their stoic, blackened regions; but it still hurt, it still ached, it still presided with an agonizing fervency.
As she slipped before him, an easygoing movement, a portion to their dynamics now (besides the challenges, the teasing, the taunting – he didn’t have any of those motives in him presently), all he wanted to do was drop his head against hers and offer a thousand apologies, regrets, and rancor, the bitterness sticking to his teeth and tongue. But then she was a ghost, a wraith, a phantom in flour, proffering a kiss that he took because he was afraid (a stupid emotion for him to reside within: when he’d seen and experienced so much and this was what bound him to trepidation and consternation), indifferent towards the flecks of ivory suddenly burdening his beard. It wasn’t the first time.
She floated around again, like a sprite, like a fey, and he thought about slinking out the way he’d come, and she could try to explain the entire situation as one of his mercurial moods; but it would’ve been cowardly and shameful. So instead he slunk towards a chair, silent in his stewing and brooding, the melancholy void threatening to consume and devour him all over again. He should’ve been used to the sentiments, and for the most part he was; just not when it involved others. His hands toyed with one of the apples, batting it back and forth from palm to palm, precise and measured, a way for him to move while he thought about what to do or say. In the end, it was blunt, like most of his speech, his gaze solely riveted on her. “Vai, Remi, and I are going back down into the Spire.” He swallowed, waited for the anvil to drop, for the consternations to cease, but they just kept building, building, building, a piercing blade in his back. “We intend to kill the poisonous plants.”
As she slipped before him, an easygoing movement, a portion to their dynamics now (besides the challenges, the teasing, the taunting – he didn’t have any of those motives in him presently), all he wanted to do was drop his head against hers and offer a thousand apologies, regrets, and rancor, the bitterness sticking to his teeth and tongue. But then she was a ghost, a wraith, a phantom in flour, proffering a kiss that he took because he was afraid (a stupid emotion for him to reside within: when he’d seen and experienced so much and this was what bound him to trepidation and consternation), indifferent towards the flecks of ivory suddenly burdening his beard. It wasn’t the first time.
She floated around again, like a sprite, like a fey, and he thought about slinking out the way he’d come, and she could try to explain the entire situation as one of his mercurial moods; but it would’ve been cowardly and shameful. So instead he slunk towards a chair, silent in his stewing and brooding, the melancholy void threatening to consume and devour him all over again. He should’ve been used to the sentiments, and for the most part he was; just not when it involved others. His hands toyed with one of the apples, batting it back and forth from palm to palm, precise and measured, a way for him to move while he thought about what to do or say. In the end, it was blunt, like most of his speech, his gaze solely riveted on her. “Vai, Remi, and I are going back down into the Spire.” He swallowed, waited for the anvil to drop, for the consternations to cease, but they just kept building, building, building, a piercing blade in his back. “We intend to kill the poisonous plants.”
I am comfortable with violence
