[se] when another is gone

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Were he in his right mind, the Sword might’ve pinpointed on similarities between himself and the stranger. Prior to any sickness, any delusions, anything taking and rendering him apart, he would have immediately scrutinized, studied, examined in quick, fastidious precision; shaped and honed from days of bloodshed and war, when there were only seconds to make a decision about one’s opponent. How they moved. How they struck. How they wielded. How they defended. Here, within the infirmary, he could barely remain upright, and the air of frustration bled through his presence, a head once head proudly now low and tired, exhausted and aching, struggling to decipher the most minute or minimal movements. As nothing, as no one, as an anonymous factor along the threshold, maybe it was the only thing he could do – merely remain, extended kindnesses where he hadn’t earned or deserved them. Quiet, he pulled apart some of the meat and ate; barely managing to recall the taste, voraciously scraping up what he could, before his body decided it couldn’t be compelled anymore. The other man stayed, but was hushed too – another mode and code Deimos could appreciate, given his own predilection towards silence. There was no one prying. There was no one poking or jabbing. There was no one pondering and struggling to decipher any meaning from words or thoughts; when he really didn’t understand their lunacy either. His eyes lifted away from the bowl, now scarce, when there was a name offered. He tilted his skull a fraction again, still leaning against the wall, piercing gaze narrowing briefly. Maybe he was trying to memorize features for later, maybe he was attempting to ponder recognition, maybe he’d lost it altogether and was staring at something beyond this Noah. But a low rumble exuded from his chest, as if the effort was far more than he could bear, and a nod swiftly granted in return. “Deimos.” master of nothing place; of recoil and grace