who we are and all that we're trying to be
There was a level of irritation settling itself in coiling rapacity along his mind. The more he was allowed to think and mull about it, the more exasperated he became with the whole nuance, nonsense, and mess. Because Jigano hadn’t mentioned a damned word. Because they’d hunted for leaves as if it was normal, for spines to be broken, for Amalia to be caught in these torrents and tempests. Because the Sage could’ve done something, and declined once more. There were echoes of previous intervals, of lost Shields and Harpies in the woods, of tyrants coming for bakers, of open books and pathways – a very glacial hold taking root in his jaw. It knotted and gnarled there in his silence, stewing, brooding, brewing behind quiet walls and stoic, nonchalant, reticent decisions. Ultimately, he wasn’t certain where to go from here – how much truth would come out of he approached Jigano, eternally willing to correspond and correlate a narrative with him either at the forefront, or in some heroic, unassuming gesture. He just knew it wasn’t his to make. A rumble in his tones cycled back through, as his hands lifted rocks, as his gaze swept over old stones, as his predilection for menace and malice so willingly inclined toward the forefront. “Last I knew, they were working on repairing an established rift.” This would just open up the seams, the strands, and the nuances all over again. Or Amalia wouldn’t care, already accepting that it was how the Sage was. A tolerance the lot of them had seemingly built up, supplied by the sagacity, the wisdom, the bard had to offer, and then a multitude of other things that came with it. “But I believe she is aware of his tendencies.” Considering she’d been immersed in a multitude of them – and he’d made it readily apparent during LongNight discussions how he felt about some of the twists and turns Jigano took.
He sighed, shrugged, uncertain of where to store all this newfound anger, fury, and tilting disappointment. Deimos was an individual to hold grudges, no matter how ridiculous, petty, or asinine; layers of the Reaper difficult to shake off. He’d given Jigano chance after chance after the initial spell into the Fae woods, after he hid and shirked around while Amalia was being threatened by the Merciless (and all because of him). “It is up to you,” and here his piercing eyes swept up to hers, briefly, corresponding, warrior fathoms, when to do anything else other than strike and lacerate, devastate and ruin. “Whether you want to share it with her or not.” Then his stare returned to brush and nettles, when all he craved was fire and brimstone.
Then they moved on, and his attention was fixated on leaves, on anything other than the constant, damned cycle of Jigano and his inability to change, to maneuver away from the same antics day after day after day. Before long though, Wessex seemed to have found a worthy frond, tucked within crevices and debris, holding it up so he could inspect and examine. His hands went to it, gingerly, gently, extracting it from her reach. “Yes.” A nod, an interplay of movement and motion, grabbing hold of his bag to remove another jar, another container, and placing it within. “Thank you.”
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
