You learn to speak so calmly

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Oh, Rexanna likely would have shed a tear for a fallen beloved; but Deimos didn’t feed into it, didn’t cater to the notion. Instead, he swallowed down whatever bile had formed in his throat, finishing up on the chairs, eyes following the traces of artwork, paper lanterns, stars, representations of what she’d been, along the ceiling. He had no notion of tearing them apart, even if Bastien had given the go ahead, and opted to coax the air incantations from his being. They stirred and whipped along, vibrant and curling, coiling over the finery, and he followed the wayward path, catching the ones falling gracefully down. No crumpling, he placed them across his palms, while Bastien spoke, and some amount of dread formed in his neck. Of days from before, of lifetimes ago, of mountains, summits, gilded traces and things, worlds away from here and now. He’d perished before, and then she’d done the same to him now, and the cyclical ache coiled in his lungs. The Sword had half an inclination to not say anything at all, to give into Bastien’s accord of not the talking type to the fullest extent. But all he had left now of the Penumbra were the stories. “She was a Thief in the Aurora Basin, a kingdom of Helovia.” A start, while he manifested the air, billowing across the remains, gaze focused and honed on the objects fluttering and cascading. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace