DEIMOS
we've all got blood on our hands
something somewhere had to die
so we could stay alive
Perhaps that’s just all their stories – intertwined measures of trying and striving and determination whittled into their blood – sometimes they would stumble, sometimes they would thrive, and as long as they managed to survive, it would be worth it in the end. But no one would be able to stop him from placing himself on the front lines, beside all the others willing to put themselves into constant endangerment and upheaval, sword in hand and might in his expanse. To ensure the rest would fit into their fold, capable of defending themselves, armed and triumphant, eager, ready, fervent for the fray; that was all he wanted, really, when they scraped away the lacquer and the enamel, when the bare bones bleached themselves in their cantankerous wakes. Because how many hours had they once spent hurtling and harpooning attack after attack, nothing mattering, nothing fitting, the weak and foolish mauled, the strong and durable reaching out to save the latter – kingdoms and sovereignties only distinguished in the lines and legends they told. He had yet to find a way to escape her hold, tucked, snared, and hidden, so he remained, like chiseled stone and foundational marble, columns etched and sketched with molten, puncturing lines, the scars rippling over muscle and fortification, committed to his actions since day one. “Yes. Queens must be very careful.” A tease, a ruffian smile behind everything, the lightest bit of laughter summoned along his throat; because she was strong and enduring, and a monarch’s role held more than just sliding into danger (for all the things that he’d done and conducted; that had been his favorite part).
