DEIMOS
While Deimos was formal in most regards to anyone’s home, Amalia didn’t seem to mind barging in, and at this he only gave the slightest inclination of his brow, a smirk quickly vanishing away – attention diverted and segmented back upon why Kiada has not emerged. She’d called, answered, but it didn’t cease the sudden dismay on his skull, the strange apprehension ghosting over his soul. Auni’s appearance, imploring, frantic, distraught, far more zealous energy than he’d ever instigated or insinuated before, plucked at the strands of the warrior’s machinations. His stare went to the baker, and he swallowed down the bile coating his throat; not saying anything, but the misgivings, disquiet, and tension already riddled through his jaw.Something was wrong.
An old sense of terror struck over him – because there’d been too many damned times he’d been too late, too caught up in something else, to afford the adequate measures, to apply the necessary means, to ensure someone he cared for was well. It was a monolith of regrets and rancor, safety and sanctuary a consistent, constant thought for him, calculated in the regions and ranges of wars, battles, skirmishes, where the misery had no end until bodies were sunk into the ground and dirt covered their forms. His calculations didn’t go to catacombs immediately, her voice still clamored on the walls, but the alterations, the nuances, had already chiseled their way into his chest.
He didn’t require Auni to pressure him forward, swift and quick, leaving the bag at the door, attention completely riveted on Kiada. She was upright, but seemingly barely; pale, pale, pale, like snow instead of fire, ashen instead of embers, worn, dulled, no blade to her mettle, no sword crossed over her heart. She appeared ill, drawn, fatigued, exhausted – and at first he wondered if it had been from the tournaments, the trials weighing on her, Delah’s ignition and vitriol difficult to conquer even now. Or was it something more?
The warrior was uncertain over where to stand, and instead, lingered in front of her, then crouched, eye-level, striving not to fret, but his piercing, penetrating gaze was on her stare in an instant. “We were.” It didn’t really matter anymore though; any and all triumph, all conquest, replaced by a spiraling consternation, one anguish, one melancholy, to another; no rest for the wicked. “I wanted to congratulate you on your Cloister success,” he tilted his head, nearly raised his hands to lift her chin, thought better of it, and stilled. “But perhaps now is not the best time.” He maintained a very poorly wrought version of detachment, narrowing his eyes in speculation. “Do you require healing?” Zuriel was outside; whatever ailed her might be diminished within an instant.
He was something solid
to lean against
violent and fierce and unmoving
