DEIMOS
After, after, after, when the actions were no longer required, when healing had been rendered, when beams were pulled and parceled away, there was only the dull, muted ache of apprehension, of residual fear, of agony and despair wrenching along his form. He held it well, like all the other things he’d carried in his form, but it was a crushing, swallowing, consuming, devouring reverberation, a bitter, rancorous etching of the moments he’d experienced over and over again. The ghosts and wraiths of his past simply kept multiplying, shrouds of beings he never saved, veils of phantoms and specters he’d sent willingly to their graves. He never thought Rexanna could’ve been amongst and amidst those parallels, those tangible, flickering granules of dust, bone, and ether, too radiant, too powerful, too potent in her own machinations and endeavors, the charismatic sway, the emblems and banners of persistence. It had frightened him, in the way few instances ever did – because he’d been so close to another engulfing loss.
The beast gave no hint of his exhaustion, mental, physical, it didn’t matter, as he closed the door behind him. Deimos had returned to being sentinel, guard, sword, and fortification, a rampart tall, broad, and stoic, trying desperately not to convey any of the ruminations threatening to release over his skin, under his muscles, through his presence. He only nodded at her apologies as he advanced to her side, then realized she wouldn’t be able to see them; the sockets cold and dark and absent, another clench to his jaw as her hoarse voice billowed and fanned along the room. He would’ve done more if he’d could. He would’ve burned down the sanction, the earth, the world, would’ve scorched and set monsters aflame, would’ve sent everything that had deigned to harm and wound her off into death and demolition again and again and again. His actions had been basic, necessities, while the earth spun and cackled, while the fiends outside still remained. The General sighed, and with it came horrendous burdens and force, pulling up a chair beside her, leaning, leaning, leaning so his head rested on its back, so he only stared at the ceiling. “You are welcome,” he whispered, those granules difficult to loosen, to express, when it should’ve been far greater, far better. His eyes didn’t drift back upon her, because that hurt too – so his voice was pulled from his bones, his lungs, his throat, as if it continued to meet a great resistance, a consignment to oblivion. They were quiet and stark, not harsh, inquiring through his addled, rattled, Machiavellian mind, striving to embody a picture he likely should’ve just left an empty canvas. “What were you doing out there?”
The beast gave no hint of his exhaustion, mental, physical, it didn’t matter, as he closed the door behind him. Deimos had returned to being sentinel, guard, sword, and fortification, a rampart tall, broad, and stoic, trying desperately not to convey any of the ruminations threatening to release over his skin, under his muscles, through his presence. He only nodded at her apologies as he advanced to her side, then realized she wouldn’t be able to see them; the sockets cold and dark and absent, another clench to his jaw as her hoarse voice billowed and fanned along the room. He would’ve done more if he’d could. He would’ve burned down the sanction, the earth, the world, would’ve scorched and set monsters aflame, would’ve sent everything that had deigned to harm and wound her off into death and demolition again and again and again. His actions had been basic, necessities, while the earth spun and cackled, while the fiends outside still remained. The General sighed, and with it came horrendous burdens and force, pulling up a chair beside her, leaning, leaning, leaning so his head rested on its back, so he only stared at the ceiling. “You are welcome,” he whispered, those granules difficult to loosen, to express, when it should’ve been far greater, far better. His eyes didn’t drift back upon her, because that hurt too – so his voice was pulled from his bones, his lungs, his throat, as if it continued to meet a great resistance, a consignment to oblivion. They were quiet and stark, not harsh, inquiring through his addled, rattled, Machiavellian mind, striving to embody a picture he likely should’ve just left an empty canvas. “What were you doing out there?”
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
