She rarely talked about actually being Abandoned. It wasn’t that she actively hid it, didn’t skirt the truth or avoid the topic, it’s just that she never exactly came out and said it. Then again, it wasn’t the sort of thing that typically comes up in polite small talk because it was too loaded a question. To be Attuned or Accepted was one thing, to be Abandoned or Ascended was another thing entirely. There are others, of course, but to be Fae or Demi-God is to be something even more other than what they already were. Though they were all, in their way, something rather other.
For her, and it seemed for Deimos, it was to feel magic in their veins but because of it, to be less than scum to the gods of this world. She has never learned her magic, but she wants to. The gods do not care that she can only light a candle, can only snuff out the embers that skip out of the fire and land on their blankets. They do not give her more attention because she is not good at her magic, and therefore why not be good at it? Why not learn? Why not become exactly what they already assume she is, for they have given her no other option anyway.
“Is creation your only magic, or do you have others?” she asks, watching as he again works on a helmet this time. Her attention wavers between his magic and her basket, the sides now secure and her fingers working to plait some grass around a flexible twig for a handle. She can do this without much thought, her fingers so used to the motion from constantly braiding her hair. He turns back to her with something of mischief in his eyes and she wonders how much is hiding behind that stony, brooding exterior. There was certainly more than meets the eye, for unlike her, he did not wear his emotions so plainly. “Armory? How large is the army in the Hollowed Grounds?” she asks, curious to know more of what they have put in place. “You know, I have never had a preference. I’ve collected so many different knives over the years, taking whatever managed to come into the market in Halo, that I have become used to having an assortment. What is your favorite?”
For her, and it seemed for Deimos, it was to feel magic in their veins but because of it, to be less than scum to the gods of this world. She has never learned her magic, but she wants to. The gods do not care that she can only light a candle, can only snuff out the embers that skip out of the fire and land on their blankets. They do not give her more attention because she is not good at her magic, and therefore why not be good at it? Why not learn? Why not become exactly what they already assume she is, for they have given her no other option anyway.
“Is creation your only magic, or do you have others?” she asks, watching as he again works on a helmet this time. Her attention wavers between his magic and her basket, the sides now secure and her fingers working to plait some grass around a flexible twig for a handle. She can do this without much thought, her fingers so used to the motion from constantly braiding her hair. He turns back to her with something of mischief in his eyes and she wonders how much is hiding behind that stony, brooding exterior. There was certainly more than meets the eye, for unlike her, he did not wear his emotions so plainly. “Armory? How large is the army in the Hollowed Grounds?” she asks, curious to know more of what they have put in place. “You know, I have never had a preference. I’ve collected so many different knives over the years, taking whatever managed to come into the market in Halo, that I have become used to having an assortment. What is your favorite?”
weaver
-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --
Quote by Charles Dickens
