our terrible story of survival

HOTARU

Silence is their own brand of mourning. It's familiar, even if it will never be comforting. But he knows her, and she knows him, and in that understanding of one another there grows the silence that allows her to grieve without judgment. If she were to cry, or to reach for him, Hotaru doesn't doubt he would be there. She need only ask. But her words remain bundled and silence at the bottom of her throat, gaze distant as she recalls the far too few days she had been granted with her eldest son.

When the vice around her chest loosens, allows her to breathe, laugh, live once more without the shadow of absence haunting her, she gives a humming laugh of amusement to the words Deimos throws over his mighty shoulder. "You know me too well, Deimos. I'm sure I would have loved watching them run around like beheaded chickens." Whether or not she would have involved herself in the running for rule would have been questionable. At times she wonders if she wants that again. The crown, the weight, the constant stress. Humans are so much more complex. But his prior question burns at her, relentless in its desire to procure an answer.

If she is no Queen, who is she? What remains?

Deimos' interruption (and the food he delivers, which is far more important to her right now) is appreciated as it drags her from her thoughts. She plucks a scone happily from the tray, huffing a laugh at his smirk, his amusement, the notion of settling when she had always been a thunderstorm too wild to be tamed. Even children and bad luck in love had never changed that. Always ready and willing to move on, to continue forward undaunted. "Well unless you'd like to vouch for my run at ruling, I have to figure something else out now don't I?" She flexes her fingers, let's sparks flicker up her skin, lifting the hair on her arms and giving a tiny crackle of sound. Weak, pathetic, barely a fraction of the prior scale she had managed. But still there. At least she has that. "I'm certainly not impressed by the tiny form I've been given, so war and battle may have to be sidelined until I become a buff little troll." At least the image is amusing, her tiny stature swollen with muscle upon muscle. Hotaru laughs into her first bite of the scone, letting it dissolve into a happy hum at the wonderful taste.

Oh, but then things get much better.

Hotaru swallows slowly, lips curving into a positively devilish grin as she rotates in her seat to lock her sharp eyes on Deimos' carefully frozen form. "Oh?" It's almost terrifying how she can put so much weight in one word, a single syllable that drawls from her tongue like a purr from a predatory cat having confidently captured it's prey. He turns around eventually, and Hotaru does absolutely nothing to conceal her Cheshire cat smile from him as he picks at another scone. Hotaru folds one leg over the other, leaning in, keen-eyed and nearly vibrating with excitement. While she's internally glowing with pride and joy that the man she considers family has found love, Hotaru simply can't let this go without a good dose of teasing. "And you didn't think to tell me this immediately? Deimos you simply know I'm going to needle you into telling me everything about her. Will you do so willingly, or must I go find her and find out every dirty little secret she can tell me about you two?" Her devilish smile is nearly manic, but they both know she'd never realistically go too far in her interrogation of Amalia.

Just enough to get as much blackmail material on Deimos as she possibly can. Sibling rights, after all.

you are the sun

you heal and

you burn

Deimos the Reaper master of nothing place, of recoil and grace Grieving had become a natural part of their lives, loss after loss feeding and fueling the impact. Deimos had long since rooted himself into brooding, melancholic contortions when the hour struck just right, blending into the shadows, detached, left alone with his thoughts. Others mourned far differently, but with absolute certainty – if she needed him, he’d be there. As far as running amidst the chaos, he shrugged, the half-smile rising along his features again. “We attempted a rebellion.” She likely would’ve enjoyed the tale, something to share on another interval, when there weren’t hundreds of thousands of things to say or conduct. She likely would’ve expected it, especially with he and Kiada involved, far too Helovian to allow the world to stay quiet for long – contortions of the violent, bleeding fire and ice, wintery demolition and embers of insurrection. Whether or not Hotaru would be intrigued or interested in reigning again would likely come up at some point – there were constant shifts along these intervals and nuances, somewhat irritating at the beginning, no structure, only bedlam and chaos. Even if he savored the nuances of pandemonium and mayhem, the latest plunge had been quite enough for one damned year. “You will. You always have.” Hotaru had that capability, she could do more than just erode or assimilate, branching out, reaching for allies, for likely kin, for comrades, charming and capable. He was the one who took his time in measures of the Machiavellian – and somehow, someway, these creatures of Caido had accepted and tolerated his presence. He arched a brow at the sizzle to her fingers, the promise of power crackling in the synapses; catalysts for future havoc? He did laugh at the notion of a buff little troll. The image was too much. Then came the latter threat, and he rolled his eyes affectionately, the devilish contortions searing and snapping over the threshold. The Reaper, the Sword, had half a notion of sending her back out into the snow, if all she was going to conduct with teasing and taunting. He would withhold from saying anything at all; and she knew that, understood means and motions of his livelihood very well. “It is precisely why I did not tell you.” They’d probably still be talking about it. Hotaru had likely never met Huyana – not before she drifted off on plumes of air and cascading showers, gone and lost to him in consecutive moments, almost always like a ghost well before her passing, promises of benediction he could never fully grasp. So he sighed, pretending to be quite put upon, and began to unravel the etchings of their tale over the scones.

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