DEIMOS
He kept himself occupied along the thrall of an opening door, her leopard intervals lingering along the aperture, drifting back out into the cold – he embraced the chill of the wind against his skin for a moment’s glacial snap, before returning to breakfast. The bacon was turned, the eggs were cooking and occupying another pan, and the bread was warming. In Amalia’s absence, he also took care of the fire along the hearth, stuffing pieces of paper, wrapping the kindling in its contents, and piling logs upon logs, eventually stoking broad, vibrant flames. She found him again back along the kitchen, threading his way through with plates, spatula turning over rasps of food; his head turning to glance over his shoulder at her proffered wares. The Sword’s eyes flickered down to what she’d gathered; the scents invoking some age-old, primordial nostalgia, adrift on winter berries, holly, pine, and snowdrop sprigs, suddenly longing for the mountains all over again. His smile drifted back, only arching his brow at her pondering of a vase (as if he had any along this threshold; because he couldn’t use such a décor as a weapon, and ordinarily, he wasn’t much for adornments…unless munitions along the walls counted). “Hang on,” and he placed his cooking utensils down, ensuring his hands were no longer occupied – gilded creation echoes and reverberations extended through his palms. Eventually, the vessel was concocted; only from fragments of his memories, quiet, unassuming things nestled in past lives. It was simple, lacking in ornate designs or fragments, no artisan heraldry to its claim. Maybe the bouquet would be enough.
You aren't afraid of throwing yourself
in the path of danger
but you're terrified of letting anyone in
