DEIMOS
the fire can't touch me
for I have burned too many times
for I have burned too many times
The fumes fired back, and he listened, like stone and rocks, forged amongst acrimony, used to the pummeling weight of worlds lodged behind skulls, the first volleys hard and ignited. He instantly thought of Peter, of Adam, still in the icy cave, beholden to the dragon – but of her making. It was a pattern here, and he’d ultimately joined that circle too due to LongNight’s claws and his unfortunate planning, feeling the pulse of those entropies sinking behind his shoulders, within a clench, a feathering, of his jaw muscles. “You did not cause their deaths.” An echo, from when he’d been broken on Temple floors – whether or not either of them believed in the statement. “Would you prefer to have not tried at all?” They both knew better; and still often launched themselves into frays and danger, intending to guard, protect, and find a way.
A swing and miss thereafter, and she sealed herself up in cracks and crags, hands pulled back, away from him, snaking over her frame. For once, he didn’t take it to heart, rising from his chair, meandering over to where he’d left the food, taking things out of the bag, slowly, one-by-one, while measuring out his response. He was not made for these sort of things, and his lack of experience showed in the stumbling of abilities, eyes on the array of choices, wishing he knew exactly what to do or say. Perhaps this was why he craved the battlefield – tactics and strategies, mayhem and dominion, never having to question the workings of a blade. The Sword listened to the singular lie, quietly placing things along a plate. “You can take your armor off, Amalia. You do not need it with me.” No judgements here, no verdicts, assessments, or decrees. One day he might listen and hasten to his own declarations.
Deimos meandered back with the plate, bursting now with variety, and two glasses filled with water, placing them on end tables by the bed, and the plate along blankets. He made a space for himself without touching her, room and expanse for both, reaching for a few berries on the dish, motioning it towards the middle of them in case she was hungry. Lower reverberations stirred in his chest, while he contemplated, while he asked. “What do you need?”
A swing and miss thereafter, and she sealed herself up in cracks and crags, hands pulled back, away from him, snaking over her frame. For once, he didn’t take it to heart, rising from his chair, meandering over to where he’d left the food, taking things out of the bag, slowly, one-by-one, while measuring out his response. He was not made for these sort of things, and his lack of experience showed in the stumbling of abilities, eyes on the array of choices, wishing he knew exactly what to do or say. Perhaps this was why he craved the battlefield – tactics and strategies, mayhem and dominion, never having to question the workings of a blade. The Sword listened to the singular lie, quietly placing things along a plate. “You can take your armor off, Amalia. You do not need it with me.” No judgements here, no verdicts, assessments, or decrees. One day he might listen and hasten to his own declarations.
Deimos meandered back with the plate, bursting now with variety, and two glasses filled with water, placing them on end tables by the bed, and the plate along blankets. He made a space for himself without touching her, room and expanse for both, reaching for a few berries on the dish, motioning it towards the middle of them in case she was hungry. Lower reverberations stirred in his chest, while he contemplated, while he asked. “What do you need?”
the sea can't harm me
for I have been drowning all my life
for I have been drowning all my life
