DEIMOS
Stone and flame, fire and ice, rock and rubble and ruin, rising up to scrape across the surface of rime, snow, and glaciers, mountains upon mountains – all of them segmented and scorched into some semblance of potent characteristics. He hadn’t asked to come along out of faith, out of conviction, out of striving to see her fly instead of being moored and dragged alongside; believing in Kiada’s convictions, in her strengths, in that unfurling sense of persistence and perseverance, in the ringing defiance, in all the things the beasts considered grand. Emboldened, fortune sometimes favoring the bold, the intrepid, the brave, the sure – and it wasn’t his right to permit or to pursue. Only her wishes, only her creeds, only her beliefs, crossing into the Stygian roads and ramparts, embarking on her own misadventures, were marks and measures of note.
Deimos waited while the other ax fell, arching his brow, pondering if it’d been a mistake and some notion of upheaval was going to descend upon him again. The intonations beyond the surprise, the amusements, the appeasements, or the jaw dropping, likely meant he would’ve been skewered on the spot had she been healthy. He laughed instead, easy and genuine, listening at her meeting Amalia, when cursed (and here the Sword couldn’t even scarcely reflect on those times, likely completely out of touch by what she’d been even marred with). The general shrugged, because by now all of them had seen and experienced far-worse things; death, desecration, destruction, rebellion and revolution, everything notched and scorching in between, no even scores for them to outline or mark upon. He’d even begun to consider what sort of reunion they’d have (or how to keep Hotaru far, far away from the baker), before she chimed off other ridiculous accords. “Cute?” He muttered, brows furrowing again, as if he couldn’t fathom or understand the word.
Then the other implication caused him to snort, wrinkle his nose, altogether very boyish in the dropping of pretenses, reticence, and guises. His tones were deep and dark, as if he’d been mortally offended or wounded. “Giddy? I have never been giddy.” His eyes raised back up to the ceiling, along the walls, across the accord of the room. “Happy.” He’d been happy; a damned rare occasion.
Deimos waited while the other ax fell, arching his brow, pondering if it’d been a mistake and some notion of upheaval was going to descend upon him again. The intonations beyond the surprise, the amusements, the appeasements, or the jaw dropping, likely meant he would’ve been skewered on the spot had she been healthy. He laughed instead, easy and genuine, listening at her meeting Amalia, when cursed (and here the Sword couldn’t even scarcely reflect on those times, likely completely out of touch by what she’d been even marred with). The general shrugged, because by now all of them had seen and experienced far-worse things; death, desecration, destruction, rebellion and revolution, everything notched and scorching in between, no even scores for them to outline or mark upon. He’d even begun to consider what sort of reunion they’d have (or how to keep Hotaru far, far away from the baker), before she chimed off other ridiculous accords. “Cute?” He muttered, brows furrowing again, as if he couldn’t fathom or understand the word.
Then the other implication caused him to snort, wrinkle his nose, altogether very boyish in the dropping of pretenses, reticence, and guises. His tones were deep and dark, as if he’d been mortally offended or wounded. “Giddy? I have never been giddy.” His eyes raised back up to the ceiling, along the walls, across the accord of the room. “Happy.” He’d been happy; a damned rare occasion.
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
