fracture patterns

Deimos The inquiry lanced him somewhere, on an inward, crushing scar, a shard amongst his ribcage, clawing unseen down his shoulder blades. As if the question summoned ghosts from the ether, his mother’s face appeared along the latest puddle, stern and quiet, and looking into her eyes was like calculating the strongest measures of disappointment; wondering if he’d erred somewhere again. Not enough were the croons, and his piercing gaze landed on roots and boughs for a long moment thereafter, lungs struggling to steady the rush, intake, of breath. “The ones I see are dead.” The thought of Stone peering down at him from another realm, another world, despite meeting her demise, despite never venturing towards Mort’s realm, made him wonder far too much for such a vague statement. “So unless they are viewing us from the other side…” He shrugged, attempting not to go over, not to drown, not to suffocate and slide into the murky abyss of the past, over and over and over again. Fortune tellers and falsehoods were an easier topic, perhaps, listening to Ronin’s experiences. Deimos didn’t have any similar tales; he’d been placed on shielding, securing duty, and staying out of the way of those who’d chosen to partake in festivities and amusements; his brooding, intimidating features not requested towards any small events. He tilted his head, and refused to glance into another puddle for that interval, choosing the woods instead, or the tip of Zuriel’s horn. “Did any of their accounts come true?” Out of sight and out of mind Make everything alright So let the sky and sea collide Just not in our lifetime