DEIMOS
You know about them were vague glimmers; he knew of their presences, but not everything else. He could imagine their faces, the impacts they had on the Shield before him, the way she’d been molded from their influences, and those he’d learned and trusted in her stead. But the weight of loss was heavy and eternal, an enduring wake pressed upon hearts, no matter how withered, no matter how stalwart. His eyes glanced over her, at the way she gazed away too, as they stood upon thresholds of sanctuaries and still didn’t know where to turn. It shouldn’t have been this way, and yet, that was where they remained, suffocating, the world pressing in.
Deimos so desperately wanted to shake it all off.
He maneuvered towards the hearth, an ease of action in the otherwise still spirals, kneeling before it as Zuriel seemed to crave it; especially after the frigid wakes, where they’d all barely survived. The General obliged her, a pat on her neck before unfurling the fire from his palms, where they stoked, kindled, and burned on the logs already resting there. Steady. Beating. Living.
“My father was strong and ridiculous, and I wanted to be just like him.” A soft laugh, while he gazed into the fire, his mind conjuring images of blades, of FireSwords, of a man larger than life – sending it along to her, if she wanted to see, if she wanted to peer, if she wanted a peek at the influential tandems of his life. “My mother was enduring, formidable, quiet, and stern.” He tilted his head, memories curling over stones, rocks, as if she were everything earthen in its wake, doing the same with pictures, with recollections. He rose then, eyes coming back to her as she spoke of guilt, the notion of comprehension settling in his stare, yes pummeling and pervading in their wounds. Too alike in that way, the way they harbored and strived, attempted and tried, and results still bearing down on them. “I was gone to war when they were slain. I always wonder if I could have saved them.” If he could’ve saved anyone and everyone; his body a weapon, a rampart, an unyielding, rigid oeuvre to massacres, demolition, and annihilation; doing everything in his power to ensure they survived, lived on. Except it didn’t really matter, in the end.
Deimos so desperately wanted to shake it all off.
He maneuvered towards the hearth, an ease of action in the otherwise still spirals, kneeling before it as Zuriel seemed to crave it; especially after the frigid wakes, where they’d all barely survived. The General obliged her, a pat on her neck before unfurling the fire from his palms, where they stoked, kindled, and burned on the logs already resting there. Steady. Beating. Living.
“My father was strong and ridiculous, and I wanted to be just like him.” A soft laugh, while he gazed into the fire, his mind conjuring images of blades, of FireSwords, of a man larger than life – sending it along to her, if she wanted to see, if she wanted to peer, if she wanted a peek at the influential tandems of his life. “My mother was enduring, formidable, quiet, and stern.” He tilted his head, memories curling over stones, rocks, as if she were everything earthen in its wake, doing the same with pictures, with recollections. He rose then, eyes coming back to her as she spoke of guilt, the notion of comprehension settling in his stare, yes pummeling and pervading in their wounds. Too alike in that way, the way they harbored and strived, attempted and tried, and results still bearing down on them. “I was gone to war when they were slain. I always wonder if I could have saved them.” If he could’ve saved anyone and everyone; his body a weapon, a rampart, an unyielding, rigid oeuvre to massacres, demolition, and annihilation; doing everything in his power to ensure they survived, lived on. Except it didn’t really matter, in the end.
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
