redemption burns hot and bright

“I don’t know, Deimos,” she says, clearly exasperated with the one-sided conversation and all the questions, as if she hasn’t spent the whole season thinking about the what-ifs “I’ve thought this to death. Like I said, if you have suggestions, let me know, otherwise -” he can keep his judgements to himself. Something in her snaps. Maybe it’s all the pressure she’s under - maybe it’s Deimos on top of Kiada and their self-righteous superiority. Nothing she ever does will be enough for some people and the anger at how much she gives without receiving anything in return runneth over. So now it will go to waste. Her eyes narrow, flashing as she stands. She would never be as tall as the Sworth, but she looks up at him with indignation and disbelief. “You don’t know shit about my attempts to use it, you were in front with the unicorns when we ran from the tunnel. I brought up the rear and held it up the whole fucking time, ready to keep us safe.” Ramping herself up, her lips twist into a snarl as he demands something she can easily give, but it’s his tone that sets her on edge. The way he talks to her like she would lie about this and keep it for herself. As if she would betray her family the way he betrayed his. “You don’t get to tell me what’s a waste of something and what isn’t. That -” she fairly spits at him, pointing to the crystal in his hand. “Is the last of someone I hold dear. And if you think I’d fucking lie about where your magic will go? You think I'd hoard it instead of protecting my family? Azrael? Bastien? Kiada?" Pain blossoms behind the anger, the accusation more than selfishness and hoarding, it's an insinuation of active murder and in some bizarre way, worse than straight up calling her that. To care so little for her family? It's against everything she's stood for since - well, since before she became a demigod. "Then give it back and go fuck yourself,” she hisses, pride and pain in full control now.   Wessex can take cold nothingness, disdain, most of whatever the Sword can throw at her -but not this. Not the insinuation that she'd keep this to benefit herself when she's come to him, when she knows he dislikes her, of all people to ask for help. She played nice. She opened herself up a little. And this is what she gets. WESSEX She whispered back, I am the storm

DEIMOS

The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates

Deimos could hear the frustration, and so he bent his head down, flipping over the paper containing the crossbow diagram, pondering how best to even launch or scale an opportunity. Out of habitual moments and experiences, he began to put his pencil to the parchment, drawing out a rough scale of some sort of ambush maneuver – though he was uncertain how they could implement it. They’d still need a draw, a lure. Others under cover. “What if,” the beast began, motioning his head up –

To witness a completely ridiculous reaction.

The indignation sparking and sizzling was perhaps the single-most irrational move he’d seen in a great while – and that was accounting for his years of leading the Basin. He stood, tall and mountainous in the wake of her illogical fury, absorbing the rage, the wrath, the contempt. Surrounded and pervaded by its incredulous endeavors, he remained completely indifferent, impassive, reticent features in a canvas of unattainable fathoms. And she could say what she wanted – she could blow and billow and unleash a tirade, but the fact remained, for all her statements, she hadn’t. She hadn’t used it. It still remained in his palm; soon to be eclipsed by the incantations of his fire. Essentially, moot, vanished, and gone. What could’ve been something productive hadn’t been – and he stared at her snarl, at her bizarre outrage, muffling a snort.

And apparently she wasn’t done, as one statement spurned and spiraled into another. An interesting turn and twist, considering he’d never accused her of lying. Only that he’d wanted the conflagrations to not be left dormant, to coincide with the destruction, to lend them aid in conquering the monsters.

Considering she had asked Kiada to accompany her, and she died – he left that unsaid for now.

There’d been no insinuation. There’d been no accusation. There’d only been verity and reality. And if she couldn’t face it, perhaps there were far, far bigger problems ahead than LongNight.

When she seemed finished, the rumble of his tones pierced back in – neutral, flat, apathetic. “A yes would have sufficed.” Yes; she’d use it. And the entire thing would’ve been over. Instead, the Wraith’s tirade launched and unfurled, and she was to the measure of cutting off her own nose to spite her face. “Hotaru would have loved nothing more than to see her power crackle across the land.” A burst of precision, might within the lightning expanse. Not to be caged, not to be shackled, not to be tethered, not to be locked and stowed away. But it didn’t matter now.

Instead, she had marred any attempts in her hysterics, the assumptions flaring wildly, inaccurately, and unjustified in their theatrics. So much that she’d rather not have any magical means, for this family she yearned to protect. “This is not about you. You will survive.” Wessex had endured far more grander scales; likely far more than any of them were truly aware. And she could live in a world where she believed everything and anything was against her, or she could pull her head out of the void and look around. Take a step back. “This is about the rest of them.” The ones who had to face the monsters, who didn’t have her depth of skills, powers, upgrades, or items. The ones who had to rampage their way across a void they didn’t want to harpoon through. The ones who weren’t killers. The ones who had found another way to survive, and followed the Voice straight back into damnation. “So you would prefer to spurn my willingness to aid you, and your brethren, for the sake of your pride.” Asinine and foolish, stupid and incredulous.

The Sword kept the crystal in his hand, giving her one last opportunity, one last moment, to dig herself out of the hole she’d made – and then he’d be done.

The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead

They’ll soon find out that if Wessex had indeed used the crystal earlier, it would have cracked and been no longer viable. And she wouldn’t be here, asking for fire. Too bad she doesn’t know that, it would have been the perfect rebuttal. Instead, the iron in her spine seems to contract, and whether that flash is out of her system or she recognizes the need to pull it back (yes, before he holds her hostage with the magic she needs), there is a cooling in her, as it tends to go. “You know exactly what you said,” the Wraith throws back, crossing her hands over her chest and refusing to believe that he is truly so stupid as to think that commenting on not using magic and then saying it isn’t to be hoarded won’t draw a line in someone - anyone’s - brain. “If this were about me, I wouldn’t be here. This entire fucking season of planning and training has been about them. I wouldn’t have come to you if I didn’t think I had to.” Her jaw clenches, thinking of the people she’s charged with, the nights she’s stayed up weighing the pros and cons of each, whether or not she should relinquish the Eirachi’s magic for channeling, how to get everyone something to use. He knows nothing about her. He moved to Halo, wears a fur coat, broods all over the place, and ought to change his name to Jon Snow. “There are other magics I could fill it with, but we both know you've got the most powerful and your fire will be the most useful and it could save people you supposedly care about. Shouldn’t be about how you feel about me, right? So you can hold it hostage for a yes I already gave you when I made the request -” And she can go back to everyone and tell them he wouldn’t help. Tell the Warden. Wessex may not have overreacted, but at the end of the day, he’s the one with the super-powerful magic. “-or you can do everything you can to help.” Like she’s about to tell Kiada, this is about something bigger than her. Deimos can rise to it. Or he can condemn them. His hand is around the cyrstal, not hers. WESSEX She whispered back, I am the storm

DEIMOS

The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates

So much for that opportunity.

Wessex had many, and still chose not to take it. Patterns in the complexities and arrangements. A consistency. Circumstances be damned, because the Wraith was always in the right, and everyone else in the wrong. No growth. Nothing but the same, tired old song.

Instead, she continued in her holier-than-thou, presumptuous nature, and he stopped listening entirely. It was still all about her. Still about the things she’d had to do. The one entire season of planning (which hinted at the scrambling, at the way things seemed cobbled together on last minute enterprises). Though, it did lead him to wonder how many others must have tried to plan, orchestrate, muster together something, before it was either alleviated, done in, or mauled over by whatever remained.

There were a thousand other things he could say, but he couldn’t be bothered anymore. Listening was not a skill she possessed, and clearly processing the information took a laborious amount of time; time better suited to conducting training for his own. It still somehow managed to circle right back to how the world felt about her. She couldn’t see it. She couldn’t hear it, even when coming from her own mouth, her own words, her own voice, her own thoughts. She might’ve been one of the most egocentric individuals he’d ever met.

He shook his head, ignoring her other shots, allowing them to pilfer off his armor, his iron, his resolve. The lightning in his palm dissipated – gone, vanquished, and forgotten – only to be replaced with the fire emblems searing along his veins. Maybe she would utilize them as she’d said. Maybe she wouldn’t. “We are done here,” he announced over the vestiges of her bellows and clamors for a false justice, passing over the note for Morgan (its containments now more poignant than ever), and the crystal. “Good luck.” Based on her deliberations, schemes, and reactions, they were going to need it.

{FIN}

The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead