DEIMOS
we've all got blood on our hands
something somewhere had to die
so we could stay alive
Her words slipped over him and he couldn’t unclench his jaw, steeled and self-barricaded, the garrisoned walls lacquered over him, re-forged in his anguish. The beast bowed his head and nodded, becoming a glacier, a stone, a monolith in the wake of ruins – trying desperately not to become the latter again, clustered and coiled amongst the rubble and debris. His grief wasn’t something easily fettered or dropped along the way, no pebbles or rocks assorted from his journey here, and while he was content and proud of Evie for her rise to power, the Penumbra’s reign still etched and scorched down into his bones, and then her death charred them thereafter. For some reason, he hadn’t expected the rest of her syllables and phrases; had presumed his post would be left vacant until another, more deserving, figure was found. His disastrous wake in plans had killed the previous monarch, and so his eyes widened, suitably stunned for a moment, before clambering back down into their nonchalance. Uncertainty vexed and toiled – for himself, for his actions, for what dire amounts lay burdened ahead. He didn’t know Evie’s course either, where and how she wanted to define her capabilities, her abilities, her ideas and notions; she’d be free to dissolve the militia and his role entirely.
Then, there were the upcoming notions, the brewing, foreboding angles heightening. They’d been slowly maneuvering for a while, since the blight, but tensions were bound to break and fetter, cast off for pure antagonism, despite wayward strikes and mistaken claws. “It depends on if you believe I would fit into your ideals.” Rexanna and Deimos had an understanding built from previous lives – capable of reading one another and imploring on each other’s behalf, strengthened by their familiarity – and Evie was just starting, fledgling wings striving to take hold. “You know something is coming.” Should be able to read it, to hone it, to see it with her Natural sway; the Sword had simply from experience, the toying, the batting, the tension, the gnashing of teeth before the real events took hold. Whether it was war, battle, skirmishes, a rebellion, a revolution, he, and his allies, comrades, would likely be in the thick of it.
He’d defend. He’d protect. He’d guard. But only if that fit into her schemes, goals, and aspirations. The monolith’s gaze pierced back towards hers. “I will not back down.” A promise, a truth, a conviction, hopefully better conjured with plans not so easily rendered disastrous; no fortune there at all. “Is that what you want?” Is that what she needed?
