DEIMOS
His family had once been strictly in blood: along crags and tides, beneath moonlit wonder and breathtaking awe, pieces of shells, sea gulls, and waves, under watchful gazes of fire and water, ultimately stretching to neighbors and the other villagers, the children laughing alongside him, into coves and out of currents, mischief unrivaled. Then it molded to comrades, brothers in arms and war, where they blasted the world to smithereens to crusade onto glory, to wipe the smirks off of adversaries’ faces, hollering and howling into the night with drunken crescendos and inebriated aspirations. Ultimately, both fell apart – and he should’ve been Deimos the Useless, Deimos the Inept, Deimos the Ineffectual, for all his efforts to save them all – too late for his parents, their homes in ash, in cinders, in rubble, not fast enough, not quick enough, for swift enough, for the rest of his brethren, fading into their final heartbeats when he slashed at their foes. Then it was the Basin, makeshift thresholds where he only seemed to be the shadow, the drifter, the savage in the dark, the nefarious beacon who guarded, who protected, who attacked, who assaulted, who never got too close because he was afraid of what loss would do to him again. He didn’t abandon. He didn’t forsake. The beast was merely cold and stark and terrified, lunging at the realm when they dared to come too close.
And now he faced the same situation, none of them sharing heritage or legacies; but devotion, affection, and love. He couldn’t be so lucky, not again, and the notion riddled and scorched, marked and chiseled its way into his form. Already one of their own was sinking and he didn’t know how to help her swim, could only give her stones and arms and brawn to alight her along the surface (and for how long?). What did his fondness sow? What did his care display? Or were they all so damned that no amount of his bestial, barbaric efforts would ever really come to fruition – the writing on the walls, dastardly and cruel, vicious and unraveling, frayed ends incapable of being tied back together? He carried the plates over and finally glanced at Amalia, swallowing down the maddening rush of defeat and pushing it aside (madness too, to think he wouldn’t fold and fall apart like the rest of them, straightening out his rigid form as if a mere battle of wills couldn’t shake him to the core). But she’d already looked away, and if she thought to be out of reach his irreverent ease into devilry conducted itself into a fine fervor, arm brushing alongside her, a bow to his head and neck as he sought for their gazes to lock –
Then there was a bristling inferno behind him, and he’d won, he’d won, he’d won, triumphant in the zealous, furious gaze for a few, petulant seconds, a ruffle of feathers, surprise in Kiada’s avian skull-tilt. He wore a smirk like a boy, impish and delighted in a game of fury, where his composure in the sedition could spread and torment, taunt and tease. It was a distraction from hellholes, no matter how irritating or vexing, purposefully meant to gnarl and gnash and bludgeon her away from the fissures, the cracks, the ravines. The warrior listened to Amalia’s intonation too, pondering if she was displeased, pondering those measures into account. “Yes,” he addressed the Harpy, brow arching, arms folding where they lacked plates and a purpose other than rankling and infuriating, should’ve been given more to do, already hastening to touch and graze fire. “She is. She did it to escape Zariah’s clutches.” He’d congratulated her too – proud she was no longer under anyone else’s damned spell, outwitting the Merciless, just as she’d done to so many others amidst mountains, peaks, and summits, rising along prominences and artifices with dastardly ease. He leaned against the counter, eyes taking on a wicked, roguish haze. “You may choose whether or not to go.” The snicker, the smirk, the defiance lacquered in his features, however, warned there was only one true option in the matter. He wouldn’t force her; Deimos controlled himself and no other, but he was also not above machinating means and ends. “I am certain she would appreciate the gesture.” Family was family. Quiet support would not kill either mother or child. Then they could both be on their way; crossing paths when they deigned it appropriate.
He was something solid
to lean against
violent and fierce and unmoving
