DEIMOS
It sounded so simple, so mundane, when he first heard it. Cera is dead. It echoed and bounded over his skull for a moment, as if he couldn’t fathom or understand the complexities of a straightforward sentence. The agony and anguish echoed and pulsed by Remi curled over his flesh, and only then as he rose from his table, as he looked upon his weapons, as he pondered over means and measures and fought, with great difficulty, to manifest a staccato semblance of normalcy, the words suddenly had meaning.
Cera was dead.
The man he’d met in the woods, the maned wolf, the Golden Prince of the desert sands, far greater, far kinder, far better than a majority of them would ever be, was struck down. As if he were nothing. As if he were merely dust. As if he were already ashes, as if his life had been naught to no one; and a barbaric, seething maelstrom took over the monolith’s grasp on his weapons, on the sword in his hand, on the meticulous grind of his incantations. He wasn’t about to howl that life wasn’t fair, he knew, he knew, had experienced it first hand – but gods be damned it was tiring, it was stifling, it was difficult to keep losing all these fragments, all these people, all these things that held him together by strands and threads. Cera had been a whisper of Helovia, had been the dunes, had been the Dragon’s Throat, had been a world he’d only glimpsed upon in wars and battles. Cera didn’t deserve it. Cera wasn’t an individual to be stifled or suffocated by a monster’s claws or talons. Cera hadn’t done anything to warrant the notion – and if rumors or his Basin thieves’ information to be deemed complete - ever.
Deimos should’ve done more. Should’ve warned more. Should’ve explained. Should’ve ensured he’d made it into safety, instead of just assuming the world listened. It ground a hole into his chest and burrowed into his heart, turned over the nefarious insides and blistered, his jaw clenching, iron-clad form reaching for the anger, the vehemence, the vitriol, instead of the shards, nettles, and barbs underneath. That could come later. That could come never. That could come when he was alone and despondent and done. He owed it to Cera to at least try and pull his remains away from hell.
He didn’t even care that the Rathskeller burnt, nothing but the hollow remains. Death had been enough.
The beast took his munitions, head bowed, trying to remember what it’d been like before demise had entered his life – it’d been too long ago, it might’ve hardly been worth imagining. Instead, he glanced towards Remi with a firm nod, affirmation and adherence to the task, action and necessity contorting over his frame. Then he turned into Amalia’s orbit, understand he couldn’t stay there, but pressed a promise, a conviction, along her brow and her cheek and her lips – silent and steady and flickering between strength, maelstroms, and abhorrence. Soon, he ignited into their bond, before he couldn’t do anything else without ricocheting or falling apart, following Remi to the door. Ready.
Cera was dead.
The man he’d met in the woods, the maned wolf, the Golden Prince of the desert sands, far greater, far kinder, far better than a majority of them would ever be, was struck down. As if he were nothing. As if he were merely dust. As if he were already ashes, as if his life had been naught to no one; and a barbaric, seething maelstrom took over the monolith’s grasp on his weapons, on the sword in his hand, on the meticulous grind of his incantations. He wasn’t about to howl that life wasn’t fair, he knew, he knew, had experienced it first hand – but gods be damned it was tiring, it was stifling, it was difficult to keep losing all these fragments, all these people, all these things that held him together by strands and threads. Cera had been a whisper of Helovia, had been the dunes, had been the Dragon’s Throat, had been a world he’d only glimpsed upon in wars and battles. Cera didn’t deserve it. Cera wasn’t an individual to be stifled or suffocated by a monster’s claws or talons. Cera hadn’t done anything to warrant the notion – and if rumors or his Basin thieves’ information to be deemed complete - ever.
Deimos should’ve done more. Should’ve warned more. Should’ve explained. Should’ve ensured he’d made it into safety, instead of just assuming the world listened. It ground a hole into his chest and burrowed into his heart, turned over the nefarious insides and blistered, his jaw clenching, iron-clad form reaching for the anger, the vehemence, the vitriol, instead of the shards, nettles, and barbs underneath. That could come later. That could come never. That could come when he was alone and despondent and done. He owed it to Cera to at least try and pull his remains away from hell.
He didn’t even care that the Rathskeller burnt, nothing but the hollow remains. Death had been enough.
The beast took his munitions, head bowed, trying to remember what it’d been like before demise had entered his life – it’d been too long ago, it might’ve hardly been worth imagining. Instead, he glanced towards Remi with a firm nod, affirmation and adherence to the task, action and necessity contorting over his frame. Then he turned into Amalia’s orbit, understand he couldn’t stay there, but pressed a promise, a conviction, along her brow and her cheek and her lips – silent and steady and flickering between strength, maelstroms, and abhorrence. Soon, he ignited into their bond, before he couldn’t do anything else without ricocheting or falling apart, following Remi to the door. Ready.
gatekeeper of an endless war
where lines between right and wrong
don't exist anymore
