who we are and all that we're trying to be
Northraven; other worlds distinct and bright, places gone or forged away, to fly and fly and never see the end of its eternal waters, not allowed to leave, but the liberation, the freedom, the deliverance of providential means simply by wings – once, he might not have been able to imagine. But now he could, and something chiseled and clawed in his chest, in his ribs, to wonder what it would’ve been like to be so chained and immersed behind walls, and suddenly, incandescently, wild and unbidden. He would’ve liked to have flown over mountains and peaks, screeching beyond the starlight and grace, power, of their worlds, another view, another format, another way to embody the glaciers and frost. He could’ve flown between snowflakes, could’ve launched and plummeted at frames and figures daring to threaten; another way to defend, another way to honor. But while Remi seemed to shrug off those memories, Deimos couldn’t; too imbedded, too rime-laden, too immersed in a world that wouldn’t have him again – death and destruction, bones laden in its tombs. “I was born beside the ocean,” and here he smiled again, striving not to show the wistful moments, his eyes glancing at the ground. “It was nice to see it again.” Isilme; another shadow, another ghost, another stitch in the seams of all his unraveled moments and journeys, uncertain which one hurt or healed the most, the stretch of the waves always promising to carry him home, home, home, the sand sinking beneath his feet, the cries and calls of the gulls, the seaweed and salt air. “Remind me, when I can,” he paused, because determination was always a foremost trait, and he damned well would be able to one day, “to show you the mountains.”
Then the conversation turned to Ludo – to promises with gods the alchemist was uncertain how to keep. The Sword’s promise to Safrin alone was difficult – to simply look within himself for strength instead of the other way around – he couldn’t fathom taking upon a task of no death in the cold, no frozen forms lying amidst the snow, left on their own to bleed and despair and drift off. “I think we could all strive for that.” Should they be plucking them out of the void? Should they be opening the door to anyone passing by? What was the best answer, the right solution? Loren’s spark birds could do well – last year’s had ended on the fringe of fire and embers coiled from feathers, from magical light. Deimos didn’t miss the undertone of something there; recalling the way Loren had deflected to not hurting Remi, and there was some embedded history within that he didn’t understand. But he wouldn’t pry. He wouldn’t ask. That was for the alchemist.
Instead, he leaned into the parameters of the amulets again – remembering the efforts of his own incantations and enchantments immersed into its fold, hastened by Amalia in the basement of the Spire. “Should we be putting any other magic in them?” Just in case?
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
