who we are and all that we're trying to be
The Sword shifted, tempted for his spine to go rigid and taut again at the feigned disappointment, uncertain of how to answer, save for a shrug at the notion of always being serious. “Not all the time,” he prospered with a hint of a smile, but in truth, they were rarer and rarer still; gone from those hours of hurling flour at friends, or spinning along in makeshift mischief and dances. Stuck, eternally, in either grating into the shadows or hiding behind his walls, his nonchalance, his reserve. She would know anyway. She would’ve seen – days where he dared to unravel and unfurl just a little.
But then the sanction of not enough beckoned over him, and he’d known it was coming, understood the truth for what it was. To hear it confirmed wasn’t a surprise – not worthy or deserving of Amalia, of any semblance of that devotion or conviction (hadn’t he said it of himself all along?), but willing to try and strive despite the condemnation. So Deimos didn’t look away when the veracity hit, when the truth pummeled, nodding, indicating his understanding and the galaxy’s reproof. The acceptance had already long been instilled in his soul; the self-deprecation alive and well; flawed and flawed and flawed, snorting, the slightest laugh, when she noted his attempts since reincarnation to do something about it.
Rather than sink, rather than spiral; enticing as it was.
His eyes flicked over starlit voids and abysses, the smallest of sighs funneling through his lungs. Lucky enough, fortunate enough, to have Amalia at all – a nod in the reel of that love, and everything else that had come with it. She’d promised to be there, for her Shield, on smiles and serenades instead of enigmas, and this prospered the first real grin out of him too. “Thank you,” embarking and present on some relief, on some light in the darkness. Then, perhaps bolder still, the opportunity here and now, his hand went into his pocket, dropping his gaze from the goddess only to ensure the artifacts were in his grasp.
Rings: gilded and star-adorned, representations of bonds and convictions, pressed and concocted from his own enchantments. He’d been drawn to conspire and ignite more magic, more capabilities, into Amalia’s, but had thought better of it. His wouldn’t equate to something Safrin could endeavor or perform, if she was agreeable, amenable to the notion. Tucking his back into his palm, fully aware he wasn’t worthy of asking for himself, he extended the one destined to be the Shield’s towards the deity. “Would you be willing to bless Amalia’s?”
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
