DEIMOS
we've all got blood on our hands
something somewhere had to die
so we could stay alive
Even though Safrin had once told him to find the strength in himself, sometimes it was terribly difficult. The beast was accustomed to believing in his abilities, watching them fetter and fail, then sputtering, digging in, grinding against onslaught after onslaught, seditious pinnacles lifted and launching, growing, growing, growing, reaching for pinnacles of strength and fortitude. To believe it was already there, in his soul, in his essence, in his presence, sometimes still scorched at his chest, as if a firm denial, a heartless interlude, a notion to refute and deny. She said naught about it though, as if accepting his comment, for it hadn’t been a lie, Rexanna had learned to be a survivor without warfare and bloodshed, just another set and series of machinations. What it meant for the Ascended, the upcoming barbarity, the tense lines continually crossed, would remain to be seen – but there was some semblance of dread and apprehension coiling along those outstretched tethers, taut and rigid and building an inferno beneath its wake. She applied to his direction and instructions, and before long the worm was released from its netting, only to succumb to inevitable imprisonment via the tank. With the creature contained, she was free to place the lid along the top, and he prepared some other things to place in the caged area, to sustain its existence for as long as the thing was required, whenever she’d managed to gather the other necessary, required objects. Deimos hadn’t expected her following inquiry, and his actions, his movements, proved it – head reeling back upwards from his crouch, staring upon her.
The uncertainty, the notion, the reel of revolution searing and sneaking back into his bones. They’d wandered once, to a shrine of the Voice, and he’d had a similar opportunity, but to no effect, brief glimpses of the goddess who brought her Ascended into being, who’d saved Rexanna but also instigated, agitated, and stoked fury amongst the citizens. Who plucked them from their worlds, who’d sent them here, who’d granted some eerie semblance of freedom, but also condemned.
It was why he didn’t trust many gods. It was why he reserved his faith for people, for places, for things that showed they were worth the convictions, the trust.
Had it been anyone else, asking for support, yearning to be escorted with her things in tow for her damned eyes – he likely wouldn’t have agreed. “I can.” The notion, either because he was embedded and enameled with some of Safrin’s boundaries, or due to all the other experiences around Caido, still made his skin crawl. Something nefarious, something eerie, something enigmatic – a clench to his jaw, hands over the tank, lifting and carrying it along his hands.
