DEIMOS
He’d always known who he belonged to – flesh and blood, resemblances and mannerisms through and through – so for the first few moments, he merely listened to understand. What would it be like to suddenly have things dropped into one’s sanction that had once been something else? A shift in position? A change in relationships? And some chances gone, vanquished before they could even begin: her father, taking his secret with him, and only extending it once he was in his grave. The meaning behind that wasn’t clear either, murky, mired, and his brow softened, eyes maneuvering away from walls and tables, and down to her as she leaned back. He didn’t have anything to grant or offer in those knotted threads and strands, except his support. A nod followed suit, swallowing down any other inquiries she couldn’t answer, or he had no business asking. More family, more friends, more companions, and yes, more fragments, figments, to watch slip away.
The promise of dinner sounded as if it were from lifetimes ago, and his gaze angled from her for a moment, sketching over the things he’d hunted that morning. The reality of the loaded question bombarded against him (but he’d told her so many times before; just you in either heartfelt whispers or ardent devotion; and this time it cycled back through their bond, silent on his lips but not in his soul). The rest was small, paltry, adornments of life. “I have a pheasant.” He maneuvered away, suddenly afraid to let go but it was a necessity for those strangled intervals, motioning towards where he’d encased the already-plucked fowl in ice. He lifted it from the container, hands already melting the bird through invocations, enchantments, and then placed it on the counter. Rifling through the pantry, he found some rice, a half-smile embedded on his lips, blue eyes equally red-rimmed, pushing through sheer exhaustion and fatigue, tempted to fall apart well before the meal. “Will this suffice? Or I can find something else.”
The promise of dinner sounded as if it were from lifetimes ago, and his gaze angled from her for a moment, sketching over the things he’d hunted that morning. The reality of the loaded question bombarded against him (but he’d told her so many times before; just you in either heartfelt whispers or ardent devotion; and this time it cycled back through their bond, silent on his lips but not in his soul). The rest was small, paltry, adornments of life. “I have a pheasant.” He maneuvered away, suddenly afraid to let go but it was a necessity for those strangled intervals, motioning towards where he’d encased the already-plucked fowl in ice. He lifted it from the container, hands already melting the bird through invocations, enchantments, and then placed it on the counter. Rifling through the pantry, he found some rice, a half-smile embedded on his lips, blue eyes equally red-rimmed, pushing through sheer exhaustion and fatigue, tempted to fall apart well before the meal. “Will this suffice? Or I can find something else.”
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
