who we are and all that we're trying to be
If it weren’t for Amalia, Deimos might’ve never been amongst a herald’s wisdom at all. For all the amount of times he’d tried, both here and in other worlds, not been answered, not been heard, not been acknowledged, would it have been a surprise that their counsel wasn’t the first he went for? He’d once established faith and accord in the foundations of his allies, comrades, and friends, habitual, routine, to rely upon their experiences and knowledge. But he’d tried here, listened, bowed his head against stars, skylines, and the cosmos – a work in progress, to understand what it meant for the divine to even speak to him. There was always gratitude in it, regardless of the circumstances.
His confusion was evident in the furrowing of his brow, in the bewilderment of his eyes. A final gift? He hadn’t asked for anything else, hadn’t quested for anything else. An enigmatic, eerie sense of wonder, and some apprehension, coasted along the surface of his skin as she waved her fingers, as her gaze went to the heavens, as his stare followed the patterns, the works of light. Pick one.
In the midst of silence, after ensuring Amalia’s ring was safely back in the confines of its box, in his pocket, his hands went to an effervescent bounty of light along the middle, of stars dotting the world.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
