DEIMOS
the ocean does not apologize for its depth
and the mountains do not seek forgiveness
and the mountains do not seek forgiveness
Deimos curled and coiled back into himself, straight back into stoic, guarded, indiscernible countenances. The rigid stance and hushed reticence might have been a tell-tale sign all on its own, the dangerous narrowing of his gaze ensuing a glacial, frigid mayhem behind his eyes. Irritated, frustrated, annoyed that this had all come out of the blue, a sudden, stupefying, tempestuous storm, and he’d been placed right into the eye of it. The beast bit back a myriad of things he wanted to say – kept them locked and loaded across his teeth, unfurling slow inhales and exhales in effort to ensure the rage, the meticulous maelstrom, remained as a rampart. All of it seemed ridiculous and impulsive, out of nowhere, quite unlike the Warden he was used to; and his machinations couldn’t quite reach over what was hidden, lurking, buried underneath. Perhaps his anger was a distraction. Another breath flickered from his chest, and his eyes went to the letter still on the desk, hands grabbing hold of it. “The monsters use physical and mental torture.” A warning, uncertain how she’d aid them. Uncertain of so many damned things, and discontent with the unknown. “Find snow moss, and help lure the luxere.” He didn’t say not to open the door. That would be a hypocritical statement.
The paper within his hands lit up with fire, emblems of his wrath spiraling, distorting, pooling over the edges until they were ashes in his palm. He watched the glow, and then shut off the incantations entirely, until there was nothing left.
Then he was annoyed that she maintained her calm semblance, as if he had naught to extend his indignation upon. “Just for this Deepfrost,” he repeated. And never again. He wouldn’t do this again.
It wasn’t time to face the Reaper’s ambitions, the hollowed out portions of those years living in carved, sculpted abhorrence. And with the oath, the assurance extended, he turned to leave, to simmer in the news down the streets, savagely stomp into the cobblestones. “Good luck,” was a rumble, and then he was gone.
{FIN}
The paper within his hands lit up with fire, emblems of his wrath spiraling, distorting, pooling over the edges until they were ashes in his palm. He watched the glow, and then shut off the incantations entirely, until there was nothing left.
Then he was annoyed that she maintained her calm semblance, as if he had naught to extend his indignation upon. “Just for this Deepfrost,” he repeated. And never again. He wouldn’t do this again.
It wasn’t time to face the Reaper’s ambitions, the hollowed out portions of those years living in carved, sculpted abhorrence. And with the oath, the assurance extended, he turned to leave, to simmer in the news down the streets, savagely stomp into the cobblestones. “Good luck,” was a rumble, and then he was gone.
{FIN}
for the space they take
and so, neither shall I
and so, neither shall I
