a day once dawned

Hotaru She rises with the light of the sun peeking over the horizon, restless and aching in ways she doesn't care to dwell on. LongNight is over, and though she has survived she is ill at heart, frustrated and burdened by her own weakness. No matter how many times Hotaru tells herself that it will come with time, that her magic will strengthen and broaden with practice, she can't help but despair over this fragile body she has been trapped in. Though she had been more sleuth than soldier in the past, she had been a formidable warrior in her own right. Had driven her Generals into the icy tundra to remind them of their place when the slack grew too apparent. Had defended against challengers, had won those she had instigated. Now, she cannot even pull her niece away from roaring flames. Had to manipulate, beg, blackmail until the girl came along to safety. And while she was grateful for such honed talents, a part of her raged against the unfairness of her childlike state. Unwilling to remain still a moment longer than necessary, the maiden slips out from her small temporary abode and sucks in a sharp lungful of crisp air as she emerges. The sun is weak but beautiful, and it reminds her of the way the golden light would make the frost-tipped peaks gleam until you could scarcely gaze upon it. With such a reminder Hotaru hums to herself, tucking her furs tighter and striking out at a brisk walk. She had many loose ends to tie, and while talk of the portal in the Mathair was certainly one, the deposed Queen is also concerned about how Deimos has settled in after the blaze. It's easy enough to navigate to his house with how she had strategically placed herself equidistant from Rexanna and Deimos. Needing them close even as she set up her own space. She wouldn't be surprised if he was already up, far too much like each other in that aspect. Though perhaps he was still warm in bed with his lovely Amalia? Hotaru grins to herself as she advances upon the door, rapping her knuckles smartly against the grain and awaiting either an answer or a mental note to return later.

DEIMOS

The sensation of freedom and liberation seared along his frame once more, and he had no intention of wasting those ample moments, seconds, instances, of deliverance. They’d both risen well before dawn’s first beam of light, savoring the habitual outset of routine and customs again; and then he intended to spend every damned interval he could outside. No more caged tiger, no more restless beast, conforming to his wits and movement, motions and ether, alive and irreverent on the outskirts of residences. He’d taken to unleashing and unfurling his wings, just for the sensation of the cold wind on his features, just for a semblance of something other than confinement – LongNight’s press upon him desperately trying to sear and segment, while the rest of his ambitions stoked far, far away from the emblems, moving forward, onward, into the next rotation and revolution.

Mountains; a craving, a longing, a yearning, because he’d seen them, he’d known them, he’d savored them, and despite the nuances and new reformations carved into their rites and regulations, it wasn’t going to stop him.

He made one more round along canopies as the sun finally rose, beams of flares and vestiges cresting over horizon ridges and edges – imagining the grace of peaks and valleys instead of the flattened accord of their current expanse – then diving, plummeting, simply because he could. It was a rush, a relish, a tandem of daring, audacious splendor, in complete, utter control of the speed, of the swiftness, racing over plumage –

And then, Hotaru at his door.

His eyes took in the familiar blonde locks of hair, and on airs of mischief, landed directly along a beam of wood, talons striking with an audible click upon his descent. A tilt to his skull manifested his curiosity, the familiar depth of his piercing eyes likely reflecting and announcing who he was; it was truly unfortunate eagles lacked the proper ability to smirk, snicker, or laugh; but inwardly, they fanned and flamed, like invisible, intangible, Cheshire grins and ruses.

"who's gonna let you?"

they asked. i said

"who's gonna stop me?"

Hotaru Out in the brisk air of spring, she doesn't mind the idea of waiting. Though she misses the days where communication of sound calling and heralding arrival could travel far and wide, when she could find someone much faster with a feral song unique to herself. Instead she has to guess whether the person she intends to seek out is on one of any possible combination of places. Of course, fate and a little bit of magic always do seem to have their hands in these things. He startles her with his appearance, sparks dancing on her fingers as she jolts when deadly claws dig into wood. For a moment she's confused by the bird's boldness until she recalls seeing him fly when they'd built the perch. Only then does she frown playfully at him, reminded immediately of his unicorn's similar antics. Hotaru waggles a finger up at him, seeking to jab it towards his feathery belly as she glares. "You're getting bold in your sassy ways, Deimos. Don't make me pluck your feathers." Even still her eyes laugh and her cheek twitches with a withheld smile.

Deimos

The opportunity to startle, to surprise, to enact some ether and vestiges of mischief in the preamble, prelude, or beyond prior deluges of fire and flames, was enough to satisfy his devilish, seditious inspiration. Temptation to continue presiding in his boyish ambitions rested somewhere in the midst; but there were better assignations and designs likely. There would’ve been a massive snicker or chuckle, if beaks allowed it, across his features at her shock, at the segment of snapping, lightning strands (bristling magic and enchantments; would’ve been a lifted brow in human contortions), then a frown, a jab, rolling off his shoulders quickly, efficiently, as he shifted and altered back into his normal, monolithic form. “You could try,” he teased and taunted, an affectionate, brotherly connotation, from years as comrades, from years as monarchs, from years away from those footfalls and pressures (though there wouldn’t be any surprise at all if she did, and then he’d have to add being electrocuted on his last of injuries acquired). Now there were other overwhelming, overbearing ventures. Now there were crucial, crushing matters. Now there were a hundred other things to accomplish. Deeper and deeper still, those wayfaring depths, pressures, and anomalies, indecision suddenly weighing on him as to why she was there, on his threshold, on his doorstep. He stepped closer to his door, hand on the knob to invite her inside, waiting, watching, for any anticipation or explanation. “How are you?” The Sword asked instead, the enormity of her first LongNight behind her, other anvils, axes, pits, and pendulums scorching, reeling, and settling into their brambles, intertwining upon shoulders and paths.

i rule the stars, not the other way around

Hotaru His boyish grin melts her heart, softens her teasing glare into something tender. He is so much happier here, even in the face of troubles and tensions that gravitate towards them like opposing magnets. It is all she has ever wanted for him, and sometimes at random in moments like these she is overcome with a tide of emotion. Gratitude that he was given another chance at life, at happiness. That he seems to be seizing it with both hands. Even so he is not immune to her sisterly prodding, jabbing her finger into his stomach as a man just as she had when he was a bird seconds prior. "Someday you'll eat those words. I still have a lot of catching up to do, but you're first on my list of victims." A cheshire grin, roguish and sly, is the blood-signed promise of her playful revenge. Surely he recalls the days of her glory? She doesn't need his magical or physical prowess to bring him to his knees, but she swears someday she will, if only to shout to the heavens that she has. Hotaru follows him over the threshold, eyes adjusting to the change in light with a few blinks as she sheds her thick outer coat to better regulate her body temperature. Deimos' words follow them inside, and she turns to give him a comforting smile, hoping to settle any nerves before her words ever make it off her tongue. "Kiada is cross with me, but she's alive and that's what matters. It was...not what I expected, but I'm grateful we all came out of it alive." Here she crosses the room towards him, eyes flickering over the insufficient bare skin she can examine, worried for any burns or injuries he may have. "How are you? I know you are connected to far more of these people than I am." Had he lost anyone? She had loathed her inadequacy during LongNight, still despises it even now as she finds herself unaware of much of what he had done and experienced during those endless days.

Deimos

Deimos, with his eternal knack for anarchy, sedition, upheaval, and other realms of chaos, had been well worn into the boundaries of trials and tribulations. His inclination towards actions, towards calculations, towards machinations, bent him along the fringes and boundaries, and soon into the thick of it; slowly, gradually, without notice until he was in Spires, until he was in the Greatwood, until he was plotting in furtive basements. As he became more immersed with people, with comrades, with friends, with allies, with loved ones, it slid along natural tendencies, stoking and refining a place for himself in either ridiculous antics or dangerous ones; proffering his strength, his power, his persistence in either outreach. It’d be the same for Hotaru, for anyone else settled in his heart and bones and memories, convictions permanently granted to those who’d earned their place there. Even with the threat, the Cheshire grin, the promise of predilection upon his being, upon his person, he laughed, doing naught as she poked and prodded, except snorting, chuckling, or rendering her with a what else is new arc to his brow. “Of course.” Maybe he would. Maybe she’d take them all down. Maybe he’d topple (again) well before she got to him. Maybe they would just keep advancing, advancing, advancing, growing and ascending, and the world eventually wouldn’t be able to catch them.

Once they were within, he quietly closed the door, eyes lifting briefly to Zuriel’s preferred spot by the hearth, the spring winds occasionally enough to warrant a lit fire, and the unicorn’s familiar form curled up before it – not even bothered or threatened to greet the blonde. A shrug and then naught more, rummaging and meandering further away from thresholds and along couches and chairs. “Want anything?” He didn’t expect the other words to come flowing out – gaze flickering back to her, brows furrowing slightly at Kiada being angry. Granted, he managed to purposefully sink into her ire about every other day out of amusement, but somehow he had a notion Hotaru hadn’t orchestrated the same events. “Cross? Why?”

The Sword could feel her stare settling on him, rooted with examination and scrutiny, as if searching for something. “I am fine,” which could warrant a whole assemblage of lies and pretenses, but he was doing better than most; her mentioning of connections causing only a singular choking swallow, pushing down the rest of the barbs and nettles as he’d always done – sufficient suppression. Only lost a few sounded far, far colder than what he’d deigned to mean – like days of the Reaper when discussing how many adversaries felled along the way. So he didn’t mention it, tucked the thorns away.

i rule the stars, not the other way around

Hotaru His acquiescence is only a further tease, and she pinches at whatever skin she can reach playfully before trotting inside. His companion draws her eye immediately upon entry, and she huffs a soft laugh at the prominent indolence the unicorn displays. Nevertheless she wiggles her fingers towards Zuriel in greeting, fully prepared to be ignored, and hangs up her coat as Deimos enters and ventures towards the kitchen. "I certainly wouldn't turn down more of those scones from your paramour," she teases softly after him, though she had certainly enjoyed the masterful creation he had presented to her that day. "I must meet her someday, if only to win her away from you so I can have those treats myself." Deimos is likely aware of her flexible inclinations, and though she would sing his praises to the heavens out of earshot to anyone else, she simply can't help but tease him at any given opportunity to his face. She settles on the softest surface she can find, because quite frankly his spartan style does not mesh well with her love of down-filled cushions and fleece blankets. Toes off her boots and curls her legs up next to her, watching Deimos putter about his house. A soft sigh leaves her at the mention of Kiada and that dreadful night. "The night the Guild burned down, she refused to leave until she knew you were safe, but I knew you couldn't bring it down with anyone remaining inside. I had to physically drag her out, and she felt I was forcing her to abandon you." She is not so insecure of her place in Kiada's life to fall to idle hands or pinched features, delivers this news with a soft sort of motherly inclination. "I had faith in you and your abilities, and I knew even if you did not make it out I needed to get her to safety. But I understand her anger." Emotion - especially visceral emotion in dire moments - did not care for logic. If it helps Kiada to target Hotaru with her frustrations, the woman will happily receive it. His response leaves much to be desired, and she doubts him, but does not press the matter directly. "You can always talk to me, Deimos. If ever you need to." He likely already knows that, but she has found that even the gesture of offering it can be grounding. He holds so much upon his shoulders, mountainous though they are, and though Hotaru is sure that souls like Amalia and Kiada are happy to help take the load, she is as well.

Deimos

Hotaru could pinch, poke, prod, and nettle at his sides, but only get so far; solid and reticent in those ethers and parameters, a particular cheeky set to his grin, desperate to move away, away, away from anything else settling in amongst bones, threatening to ignite. Zuriel lifted her head at Hotaru’s presence, deemed her an unlikely threat, and might’ve given the slightest nod, as if indicating fellow warrior, Amazonian clarity, or mere recognition. His venturing into the kitchen was only immediately followed by an eye roll at her extension of antics, seeking out the very same scones and some semblance of tea, wandering back to find her already ensconced. As he handed over her newfound wares, he merely shook his head, defiant to the last. “Good luck,” a mocking sort of confidence in his relationships and a chance to merely tease further, instigating, misconstruing her capable efforts, piercing gaze landing upon her, a snippet of taunting particles reigning and residing there, before the subjects and antics gave way to LongNight’s supremacy.

Eternally bound into vivid contortions of silence, he listened as she described Kiada’s antics, and something in his chest hurt; maybe his heart, maybe his lungs, maybe the air he choked upon, as daggered as that evening. He didn’t like to think his actions would be the root cause of Kiada’s anger and hostility towards Hotaru, he didn’t like to think the Harpy would put herself in danger because of him, he didn’t like to think anyone else in the midst of monsters and fire, struggling to find their way to his entity. He wasn’t worth that. He wasn’t worth any of it. So the General’s brows furrowed as he measured the expanse, the boundaries, the affirmations of faith and perils, eyes downcast as he settled into a nearby chair, leaning back, sighing. “You did the right thing.” She’d assured safety, and despite LongNight’s potent assignations, they’d all survived.

Other words came too, extensions of lifelines he’d rarely taken, and his penetrating gaze met hers for an instance, before sliding back down to the floor. It was easier to stifle, to wither, to decay, than give voice to any of his sentiments and ruminations; sometimes when they eroded, the simplicity in their disaster, in their ruin, in their nothingness, was a satisfying contentment, more than allowing them to live out in the open. Where they were vulnerable. Where they existed, where they slithered, where they stalked and preyed and coiled. Like old war wounds, the thoughts frayed and lingered, undulating contortions of so much acceptance that he never knew what to do with all of it. I do not deserve any of you. Why would any of his emotions have merit? Why would they matter?

They never had before – ghosts, wraiths, and specters had haunted and he’d permitted them to linger in their ether as he stalked, claimed, and destroyed, as he built foundations and walls and suffocated everything else in his path. Let them choke on the fumes. Let them die in pits. Let them wallow in his merciless wake.

Maybe the world saw how his shoulders quaked. Maybe he was weak. Maybe he’d always been nothing, and these were reminders, granules, abrading flesh and bone; he leaned forward, elbows on knees, pondering if the fortress he’d melded and molded was merely constructed on sand. If every time they spoke, they offered, he bent a little more, and eventually every stone and rock would come crashing down. What would he be in the end, then? No more fortress, no more Colossus, no more mountain, a return to ash, to dust, to rubble. “We lost three, maybe more.” He was only certain about the aforementioned – the ones whose bodies had been tucked in armories and other rooms; lost and lost again, his embers scorching over their remains, a pyre without the reverence. “Do you remember Cera?” In her sleuthing, in her thief endeavors, long before she raised her head to wear her crown – when they’d searched for ways to exploit and unravel. The one that affected him the most; no recognition of Caiside, no care for Roana.

i rule the stars, not the other way around

Hotaru For a moment she fears he will use her teasing as an excuse to delve into the pits of his self-doubt, the thoughts of uselessness and the scales of worth that he never views with impartial eyes. Instead he volleys the teasing of her tone back at her, and she sinks into the mire of play and antics as if they are children of half their ages. "If you're so kind as to wish it to me, then I'll take it." Tittering, amused, imagining such a circumstance coming to pass. Those who love Deimos most seem to have come to the same conclusion: if they don't keep him on his toes, tease and aggravate him, who else will? Well, considering the man's exclusive standards and short temper, likely everyone else in Caido. But she can overlook that in favor of being a pain in his ass. It makes her own life more amusing. The gentled barbs fall away to darker thoughts, to sunless days and loss and fear. He hides his flickering emotions far too well, even against her shrewd and knowing eyes. But she expects no less than what he tells her, even if it doesn't help the way her stomach still won't settle. "I know. We both love you, so I know she was scared, but I wish she would learn to have faith in us and not charge in herself." Perhaps it is their own problems that make them more willing to sacrifice themselves in place of her, but Hotaru knows he feels the same. That they'd both rather perish in those flames if it meant Kiada did not. Hotaru waits quietly as his ruminations drag long, letting the words settle in his mind, an open palm offering a shoulder, an ear, a spine that will not bow beneath the weight of his troubles. There's nothing more to say, the ball firmly held in his court, awaiting his decision. And when it comes, she conceals her surprise at his acquiescence, her brow drawing low and a soft sigh emitting from her lips at the tally that he lists. But the name he gives brings her two-toned gaze back up, something cold settling in her gut as she quickly begins to make the connections. "I do. The Golden Prince. I knew of him, met him a few times when the Throat held me there. He was a good kid. Did he...was he one of them?" The fact that Deimos had met him, had learned his name even before LongNight occurred, only further softens her gaze in empathetic response. Any loss is too much, but to know another Helovian had been here - no matter how short lived - and summarily lost...it's a blow that even she can feel.

Deimos

The teasing gave way to his forbearance and silence, for all those wishes, for all those dreams, for all those taunting gestures, contortions of a world they’d had and now they settled adrift in this one, striving to figure out where they belonged. Outlanders; broadening, assimilating, attempting – or struggling, diving in too far, clenching his jaw, staring at shadows on walls, on flames in the hearth, on emblazoned blue on a unicorn’s horn. We both love you curled and coiled against him and he wondered why, bit down on the choking response, and it went nowhere else but into his ether, locked and corded away, uncertain of where and how and when he’d gained all these pervading comrades along the way, yearning to cherish them instead of run, instead of yield, instead of hide. “I think we all suffer the same affliction.” Herein the smile was a ghost, a shell, faith in one another, but always terrified of what lingered on the other side, when they’d lost, lost, and lost, seasons and series and cycles of demise, of death, of disquiet, of bedlam, of worlds with such short spans of harmony, they didn’t know what to do when peace and repose pervaded their space. They all would’ve charged in. They all would’ve been scared. Replace any of them on a rotation, revolutionary spin, and every single one of their hearts and souls and conjectures would’ve administered the same convictions. He’d died before. Hotaru had lost her children. Kiada had mired her way through failed attempt after failed attempt. All of them wounded. All of them stabbed. All of them lacerated – even if the lacerations weren’t visible.

When their gazes locked he knew she understood the vicious chords, the way Helovia’s grasp still held and chased after them – an eternity, another lifetime of phantoms and ethers, wraiths and specters, reminders of what they couldn’t have. He took in her softened gaze and narrowed his in response, then allowed them to fall to the floor once more, the uncertainty gnashing and gnarling its way through his spine. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so affected; he’d barely known the lad beyond titles, beyond brief moments of compassion and connections – but that was what he’d been, another lifeline to a world that had long since expelled them. “Yes.” Like a scorching sway of anarchy and finality, extinguished and gone – doors not opened in time.

i rule the stars, not the other way around

Hotaru For a moment, so absorbed in watching the miniscule flickers in Deimos' face, she wonders why fate brought them all here. Whether the forces that rule the larger realm had seen them undeserving of peace in the afterlife. Whether the Voice had the power to steal them from other lands, and what she had wanted them for in the first place. Surely this couldn't all be happenstance? She had wandered so many realms before finally finding her family here. Hotaru doesn't know what their purpose is here, but she knows how Kiada feels. How Deimos feels. Knows she would have run into that blaze herself if Kiada had not been there to change the tides of her machinations. She smiles, slight and a little sad though it may be, at his choice of words. "It can certainly seem an affliction at times. Others, it's all that seems to keep me tethered here." Here, and not somewhere else. Floating, drifting, giving up on life that no longer had meaning with all she had lost. If she had not found him, found Kiada and Rexanna, would she have kept going? She had been so tired, so lost. Without the buoy of their love, their conviction, their fire...would she have fades away as well? Hotaru likes to think she wouldn't have. But she's not really sure. It had been a very dark period after Helovia had fallen and she had lost her children, twin, and lover in one fell swoop. It's why she empathises with the rugged man before her, when his eyes narrow and drop from her own. Relinquishing her teacup, she reaches forward to lay her hand gently on top of his. She may be small, can see how his hand dwarfs her own, but she is strong. She will help him bear this. "We can hold a ceremony, if you'd like. He deserved more than what he received. He was our brother, no matter his affiliation." Hotaru doesn't know the ways of this land, if there is a graveyard where they can place an honorary stone perhaps or something of the like. But she gently squeezes his hand before she departs. "We did all we could. He would have known that, he was practically revered for his ridiculous kindness." Notions and titles far purer than theirs had been, Valkyrie and Reaper both. Heralders of death and chaos. Cera would not have held his death against them, even if they had intentionally left the door closed to him.

Deimos

He’d never given much thought or credence to how he’d gotten here – other than pure frustration, and vexation, things spiraled and converging without his control. The questions had come clipped and broken, as he sauntered back into memories, into footfalls of moments that felt ancient, carved into stone and rubble, damned and damned again; reincarnation, why he’d been brought back, what purpose he served, what had been the point – when all along the rest of the earth knew he wasn’t worth a second try. Believing it had something to do with the Voice’s orchestrations, methods, and powers irritated him all the more, and so he’d gone on with his head down and his eyes on the ground, deciphering bits and pieces of ether, calculating them together when there was time, in between other actions, other errors, other dangers; and he felt no closer. The meanings weren’t clear; muddied, murky, as mired as they’d always been. They were flesh and bone incarnate, tangible, corporeal beings, with their skills, their treacheries, their wounds, their scars, and what that meant in the long run left him somewhat daunted – a narrowing of his eyes in the speculation, in the here and now, in the present. Where they didn’t know what to do or who to be or where to even go, drifting, drifting, drifting, the purposes not cut and dry, not bare minerals, not sketched or written out across parchment and paper. Left to their own devices might not have been the best way to solve the enigma; and perhaps the answer wouldn’t be what they were looking for. They were dust and earth, ice and rime, tied and tethered to too many whittled, fragmented seconds.

Their tethers, their lines, their sharpened segments and friction that kept them alive, that kept them maimed, that kept them brutalized every step of the way – meant to fight, meant to defy, and then meant to shatter. He sighed and it felt like lifetimes echoing through his breath, crackling along his chest, entangled in web upon web; he’d once known exactly how she felt, dark and uncertain, cold and aloof, drowned in the chasms and transgressions of the unknown. The depth of his eyes lifted to flicker back to her dual-colored gaze, striving to maneuver away, away, away from the demons haunting them all. “What else do you want to do?” Had she spent enough time here to discover something she wished to achieve? Gods knew it’d taken him an eternity to begin right where he’d always started, sword in hand, safety, security, and stalwart platitudes chiseled into his physique.

He didn’t expect her hand to glide over his, and for an instant, there was the crag, there was the ruin, there was the beacon of apathy, discontent, and shadows crawling on his skin – immediately ready to skim back into the shadows, away from comfort, away from vulnerability. The monolith’s jaw clenched again, then squeezed her fingers back gently, staring along voids and abysses, so tired of going through the same routine – danger, death, rinse, repeat. “I intend to clean up the remains of the guild. I will see what I can find.” And after, maybe, if there were more things than scorch-marks and toppled stars, filaments, they could do something. He’d ask Amalia about the customs, about the traditions, because the Naturals had done this over and over and over again, and somehow that seemed even more draining than digging countless graves after a battle. The heathen managed a snort at her hand leaving his, at Cera’s predilection towards benediction that none of them deserved. “He did not seem to hold a single grudge.” For the things the Reaper had orchestrated against the Dragon’s Throat. For the eldritch sways of Basin predilections. Which perhaps, made it all the more unfair; that someone kind, benevolent, and virtuous, would fall in the sunken reaches of LongNight’s claws.

i rule the stars, not the other way around

Hotaru She knows she can only get so much admission and emotion from the man before her, her countenance calm and understanding as he shifts the conversation away from the threads that connect their self-made family. He has never been sly, duplicitous, had relied more on stoicism and indomitable power than her own twisted words and underhanded schemes. She allows it, if only because she knows he is hurting, and does not want to force discomfort on him on top of that. Hotaru curls her legs tighter, closer, and runs an idle fingertip along the rim of her teacup. "I know it will take time to gain my power back, to join you in your ventures. I've been thinking of opening a shop, creating things." Her eyes flicker up to meet his, smiles wanly. "I'll always be ready for war. It's inevitable, even here. But the day to day is so boring!" She tries to shift the mood of the room, laughing softly even as she tilts her head to partially veil her face with golden strands. "I was thinking I could create glass, structures and vessels, weapons and jewelry. And offer clothes as well. You may pull off the rugged and handsome look, but some of the people here need a lesson in fashion." Though she's surprisingly more utilitarian herself, she is still drawn to the richer sides of life. The glamour, the mystery. Not to mention the benefit of some revealing outfits when it comes to gathering information or distracting those who think with their libido instead of their brains. Instead she focuses on his own plans, nods her head in quiet understanding of his goals. Bones were surprisingly resistant to heat, perhaps they could find something to give Cera a proper burial with. She gazes into the depths of her tea, swirling it idly. "If you need help with the search or the clean up, let me know. I may not have known him here, but I'd like to help honor him." He had been one of the few kind ones, a rarity in any land much less the desert. And when Deimos confirms it, her heart sinks further, and she can't bear to raise her eyes. "He would have had sufficient reason to despise us." She had been the indirect cause of his father's death after all. And still he had been kind to her, to Deimos, to those who had ruled the land that was at odds with his own for so long. "Maybe...maybe he is finally at rest. With his loved ones. Or perhaps he will get a second chance, as you did. He of all people would have earned it." Deimos had as well, in her eyes, but she knows he likely does not share her thoughts on that matter.

Deimos

Safety in other things, away from emotional, vulnerable footfalls and precipices, things he avoided, things he circumvented, managed to drive deep into his bones for a later moment, for a future juncture, alone, alone, alone. She must’ve recognized the way in which he turned off its routes and alleys, succumbing to the inevitable fissure of evasion; falling apart not in his goals, not in his aspirations, not when there were so many other ambitions to achieve. He listened instead, a habitual routine, keeper of secrets and knives, extending them in machinations or never at all, lodged in the webbed portions of his skull, where a thousand other recollections and memories roamed. Her dream of opening a shop, of creating glass, structures, vessels, weapons (his favorite), and clothing, was a reminder of days entrenched in more repose than vitriol; when they’d all managed to barely make some of those things, extending the notion of fabric as trading mechanisms, of striving to achieve goals of furtive tents and soundless voids. A smile, unbidden, a little rugged, a little boyish, a little mixed and mired in-between, rooted itself along his mouth, tilting his head, sipping down some tea before responding. “I can help, if you want.” Content to oblige and assist, to create and apply his efforts into the task – another rumination curling into his thoughts, sparked by recent movements. “You are always welcome to join the Artisan’s Guild. Or the militia.” Or both. And since he led the company of concocters and soldiers, now – and permitted that certain idea to curl and coil down the length of his shoulders – it’d be an easy acceptance. He wisely made no comment on the latter compliment – fashion not being his forte (more akin to armor, lengths of chainmail, which bracers paired well for which battle).

He nodded at her proffering towards the cleanup, but a portion of him figured he’d simply waltz out to the grounds one day and take care of it, stare into the brink of failure and ruin, of bizarre faith in LongNight’s convictions when he truly should have known better. They’d been prepared. They’d been ready. They’d been fervent, but so had the stretch of disaster, mayhem, and bedlam. So had the monsters. So had the demons. So had everything else in those bungled, wrecked evenings.

Cera’s lack of abhorrence, wrath, or contempt sent towards anyone from the Basin, including the Reaper turend Sword, had been startling. Instead of bristling with primordial, arcane brutality, instead of blending back into the age-old heralds of destruction, calamity, and violence, they’d merely commiserated and extended titles, fanfare, twist of daggers, and Midas’s name clinging to the brambles, the branches. “Perhaps.” A slight chuckle formed form his mouth, a little thorned, a little nettled, rough along the edges because it was dark and likely not meant to be so amusing. “It turns out he did not look upon Midas favorably either.” One less strike against them from a benevolent party – if it mattered anymore. As for at rest, at peace, maybe he was, but the unraveling of second chances scorched and flailed – because if he; machinating, calculating, vehement, bestial, and barbaric King, had the opportunity to renew his life, why not the beneficent? Or did they always seem to get the short end of the stick, accustomed to losing, failure, and defeat, at the hands of other, mercurial, avaricious cretins? “He would deserve it,” the Sword uttered in agreement, but couldn’t say the same for himself.

i rule the stars, not the other way around