who we are and all that we're trying to be
Their attempts to shy away from the melancholy, agonies, and strife didn’t seem to hold for long, and his jawline should’ve ached by the amount of clenching done by ivories, fangs, and bones. His eyes didn’t reach up to hers as she approached; unsaid implications causing a minute flinch through his skin – well aware he hadn’t been enough. The beast could only extend so much comfort, so many emotions, without flinting away, breaking apart himself, and had they been alone, without Chulane standing by, he might’ve done so. But the Sword had been amidst fractures and schisms, closing in on erosion and catastrophe, just as inept, incapable, and ineffectual as before.
His head lowered, gaze staring into the newest hole he’d dug, haunches sitting back along the ground. There’d been no chances, no opportunities, to truly say goodbye to his parents either, save for the notions of going off to war, presuming he’d see them again upon his return – the blissful ignorance of young fools wandering off into the unknown midst, chasing after figments and factions of glory. Then he managed to survive onslaught after onslaught, and they didn’t.
But perhaps Amalia could discuss, converse, about it, far greater than he ever could. Yes, he answered after a pause, dropping another herb to settle into the garden’s threshold. Deimos couldn’t imagine a reason for the Harpy turning the Shield away – moments scattered amidst bakeries, familiar, warm thresholds, safety and shelter in repose. I think she would like to see you. To listen, to share, in sentiments, ruminations, that he had no ability to cast, but she certainly could.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
