hands off

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Sorry; likely to be just the start of a series of apologies and regrets from everyone either involved or simply discovering the news, and his head bent down once more, the hammer in his hands yearning to beat against the timber, the ground, or a skull. He nodded, incapable of finding any other words, besides a thank you, but he didn’t know what they needed except time, acceptance, and anything else nestled in between. His previous comment about the Voice hadn’t meant to bristle or scoff; had only mentioned the option from experiences. He rose back to his full height on the dominion, on the snide, scoffing interval thereafter, a strong desire to snap someone’s neck pulsing between his hands. Had Amun not granted a swift apology, the Sword might’ve done just that – been done with the entire charade, with everyone’s demands upon them, with the constant, enduring cycle of this and that, requirements, obligations, pulled lines in alternating directions. “There has not been enough time.” A grumble, a clenching of his jaw, as if his teeth or tongue couldn’t bear for the words to come out. “When she is stable, perhaps.” Even then, maybe it wouldn’t matter. Perhaps Safrin couldn’t do anything. Maybe she wouldn’t even answer; too busy even for her Shield. The notion sparked something along his spine, and it hurt. Or because he’d be the one asking. Not enough. Hadn’t the world told him that time and time again? Ah, so there was the notion for the vitriol thereafter – Amun had already tried. Deimos shrugged, for lack of a better reaction past the stony reserves and sculpted reticence; too far gone in his own embittered undercurrents. The Sword’s glance fixated back upon the broken, beaten hand once more, incapable of orchestrating any other movements, no longer the working digits of careful, tissued construction. On a sigh, his answer formed and resounded, dropping his hammer for the freedom of utilizing another tool. “Yes. You will want a prosthetic after?” Then he shared a glance with Zuriel, and the unicorn came over, her own piercing stare landing upon the battered limb. Figuring Amalia wouldn’t want blood (Ascended life force or not) near stairs or ramps, Deimos grabbed his lantern, swinging along to the back, where gardens were lain and growing, granting a gesture indicating for the man to follow. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace