I carried my own ashes to the mountains
Deimos wasn’t certain if he’d ever actually allowed himself to heal.
Instead, more often than not, he carried all of the grief with him. It settled on his shoulders, drowned in his chest, carved like a knife in his ribcage, marking all the inward scars across bones and mettle. It hurt and hurt and hurt, and he’d eternally settled his soul into the labors of that anguish until it seemed ready to bury him into the earth. He’d never been enough, for anyone, or anything, for any length of time. Moments had proven that, one right after the other.
Except, he knew those he mourned would hate to see how their remnants shaped him. The good memories overridden by the devastated ones.
A breath, and he loosened the thoughts from his mind. A glimpse, perhaps, into the futility of what could be.
Another bark of a laugh echoed when the memory snow flared – he could see a bountiful spray meleeing his way, but the hound was full of tricks, dastardly wiles, and conniving of his own. A ferocious stomp of his paws unfurled plumes of fire, and the snow quickly melted in his wake, incapable of maintain its composure in the flares of heat and demolition. If some scraped over to the moose, near hooves where he’d have to avoid them with his gangly limbs, it wouldn’t bother the canine any, digging deeper and deeper into the movements.
All the while, Zuriel was also quite content to stay behind, snorting and rolling her eyes at the antics. And perhaps, a little relieved, that the Sword had found a way to not be trapped and snared by his demons.
Instead, more often than not, he carried all of the grief with him. It settled on his shoulders, drowned in his chest, carved like a knife in his ribcage, marking all the inward scars across bones and mettle. It hurt and hurt and hurt, and he’d eternally settled his soul into the labors of that anguish until it seemed ready to bury him into the earth. He’d never been enough, for anyone, or anything, for any length of time. Moments had proven that, one right after the other.
Except, he knew those he mourned would hate to see how their remnants shaped him. The good memories overridden by the devastated ones.
A breath, and he loosened the thoughts from his mind. A glimpse, perhaps, into the futility of what could be.
Another bark of a laugh echoed when the memory snow flared – he could see a bountiful spray meleeing his way, but the hound was full of tricks, dastardly wiles, and conniving of his own. A ferocious stomp of his paws unfurled plumes of fire, and the snow quickly melted in his wake, incapable of maintain its composure in the flares of heat and demolition. If some scraped over to the moose, near hooves where he’d have to avoid them with his gangly limbs, it wouldn’t bother the canine any, digging deeper and deeper into the movements.
All the while, Zuriel was also quite content to stay behind, snorting and rolling her eyes at the antics. And perhaps, a little relieved, that the Sword had found a way to not be trapped and snared by his demons.
DEIMOS
