[se] when another is gone

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Deimos had never known what to do with kindness. Capable of extending it towards others, in his own way, he’d lived amongst too many demons, too many ghosts, too many debacles to believe he deserved it in return. He’d spilled enough blood, ruined enough lives, and despite the many alterations and changes he’d made to his own actions, he’d never been capable of erasing the past. Not from his shoulders, not from his bones, not from his heart, not from his soul; and perhaps it was worse now, when the elements clawed down his insides, when the sickness pulled and touched and scorched, until he was a husk, a shell, of what the Reaper, or the Sword, had ever been. Weak. His hand went towards Zuriel’s forelock, fingers inching towards it, out of compulsion, glassy eyes focusing on nothing in particular – wishing for the comfort of the rain, of the snow, of the endless evenings and aurora mornings, and only finding the Infirmary around him. The beast half-intended to push his face into the pillow and hide; to shirk into the unrelenting chaos around him and just fall to pieces on his own – A noise, the scraping of a chair, ignited against his ears, and he shifted back to find a stranger sitting before him. The piercing weight of his stare widened, surprised, bewildered, perhaps some portion of his mind bothered he’d been caught unaware, drifting in and out of his own self-imposed bedlam. It took him a good second longer to realize the man had said something, quiet and unassuming, and Deimos was stunned into his own silence, rising on his elbows to take hold of the proffered bowl. Looking down indicated it was dried meat, and despite the agony of the ailments gripping him, he could surmise he required the nourishment. Placing himself fully upright, against the wall, he took a piece gingerly. “Thank you.” master of nothing place; of recoil and grace