DEIMOS
Heave the silver hollow sliver
Restlessness corded through his limbs again, and he either marched back and forth by the door, awaiting a multitude of returns from the darkest gloom, or parked himself in withering corners, biding away the hours until something else managed to distract him from the overtures of endless, chaotic possibilities. In those feral moments, the range of his ruminations conspired to delve far, far deeper than he wanted to go – into the what ifs, into the intangibilities that he didn’t dare ensnare between his palms or fingers, grasping at nothing but the endless, tempestuous storm, looking out to the beyond, to the Stygian corridors, to the winding, winding halls of things slain and devoured. Like Cera. Like hopes. Like Kiada’s quest and Ru’in’s wandering soul.Zuriel once again informed him that he was being irritating in his brooding form, the smoke and fumes brewing over their connection, so while she meandered down by the parlor’s hearth, he roamed, threading his way through hallways only familiar to him from hours spent preparing it for these exact days. It felt like lifetimes ago. Before more desecration, even though they’d expected it. Before more upheaval, even though they’d predicted it. He snorted, passing by closed doors or open rooms, eyes only skimming boundaries and fringes, maneuvering on and on and on –
Until there was a designation of paint, canvas and tapestries assorted on walls, and he thought he pictured them in stars. It was a segment, a pause, in his footsteps, intending to thread them back through and downstairs, and then his gaze focused on the artist. He hadn’t conversed with the Fallen Star in ages; and even then, words might’ve been sparse (had it been in the Spire – in the crumbling basement, while they fought their lives and thought they were saving him? Thought they were saving the world, and Safrin, from the blight?). On a notion, he lifted his head in an open gesture, a brandished nod, “Ronin,” rumbling from his throat. The Sword stood in the doorframe, pondering if this was how the once-monarch survived the clawing edges and fringes, by rendering artwork. “You have been busy.” A light comment, the slightest indent of a half-smile, a sigh passing through his lungs.
Unite and spread the heart apart
