they say that war is hell, but,
true hell begins when the battle ends
and you're the only one whose
hands still drip red
They near the tree, and for the most part the walk had been quiet – trying not to gather attention. She knows she’s trespassing. But she does it anyway, for the greater good she claims. But she knows nobody will see it that way. And for a moment when they approach, and Deimos stoops by one of the roots, she chooses one a fair distance away, but close enough to converse. She’s almost thankful for the rumble of his voice to keep her from her own thoughts, her own smirk crossing her face.
“Gods, when do we not?” She jests with a quiet hum of laughter, sticking her hands into the dirt and unearthing a hole big enough to plant the rose. “Where do we even start?” She pauses, thoughtfully, a brow raised as she does so. “How are things on your end?” She asks, placing the rose into the hole and beginning to place the dirt and snow around it once more.
“Gods, when do we not?” She jests with a quiet hum of laughter, sticking her hands into the dirt and unearthing a hole big enough to plant the rose. “Where do we even start?” She pauses, thoughtfully, a brow raised as she does so. “How are things on your end?” She asks, placing the rose into the hole and beginning to place the dirt and snow around it once more.
REXANNA
