home to your arms

Darling please, just give us some time, and I swear we'll be alright

Affection blooms in her breast like tangleweed as he pouts, churlish and recalcitrant. It chokes out all the negativity, the fear and burdens, and she laughs softly against his brow where she has planted her kiss before she retreats. It is not an easy lesson to learn, and speaking it is far easier than enacting it. Still, he does not take verbal arms against her, and perhaps that is the first step for him. Let him ruminate, reflect, rebuild. Hotaru is here, and she will gladly remain throughout the process. A long road lies ahead, but there is room enough for her to walk at his side.

The crinkle of his nose has her biting her own lip to quiet the laughter that tries to eek out. No sense in giving him more ammunition against her cause by laughing at how uncomfortable he is with the idea of a vacation. "I promise I won't keep you from your beloved politics for too long." Mischief brightens in her eyes as she says it, all too aware that he despises it. Which makes it all the more ironic that he would rather converse with other diplomats about regional improvements than take a vacation.

Warm, calloused hands come to envelop her own, and she can't help how her visage softens to see him smile even faintly. It dies in a curling, crinkling fashion, like a leaf set on fire as his words strike flint against the brittle remains of her constitution. "You won't delay your packing by long enough to satisfy you by asking me that," she grouses. Shadows flicker in her eyes all the same, renewed in spirit by the lapse in her attention, the crumbling of her brick walls designed to keep those thoughts and current troubles at arms length. Unable to hold his gaze lest he see too deeply into her - as he always does, the insufferable man - she instead stares at their folded hands. "Lets just say you aren't the only one in need of an escape." Hotaru can't bear to place her own woes on him, not when he is so broken already, and so she shies away from his own deflection. She isn't sure where she would even begin if she tried.

HOTARU

DEIMOS

ache first, but then let the cuts close
spit out the blood

Hearing the semblances had been difficult enough; acting upon them would be difficult. For multiple lifetimes, he hadn’t given a damn about himself – evident to see, where they sat now, striving to overcome the years of neglecting his own needs, supports, and ramparts. Strength in the body and mind didn’t perhaps lend itself to the heart and soul, and filling it with rain and stars hadn’t lasted. Not when they ceased and dimmed.

He knew what she was doing with the following comment – so he did permit a light laugh that caught somewhere in his chest. Not as wild, not as exuberant, but there just the same, a bounding notion that meant he was listening, could be teased, could be scolded, could be cast in those shades of joviality. Rising over the tides of the weariness, the exhaustion, and the strain, he shook his head in their handhold. He had promises and duties to uphold, convictions from when he’d arrived, body sunken into the snow.

But she saw through his deflection, which did manage to instigate a deeper chuckle. “I will listen just the same.” And his form made no move to pack yet, not away from the edges of the fire, from Zuriel’s resting breaths laden at their feet, nor from Belial’s continued existence in the corner of the room, completely blending in at his leisure. He didn’t move away from the hallowed sanctions down hallways, where steel continued to volley and ricochet against one another, sliding tempered and forged mindsets together to collide and whittle and fade. And he certainly didn’t move away from her, who needed the rest, the relaxation, as well.

They hadn’t been permitted to do so in Helovia. War upon war, skirmish upon skirmish, stolen ventures and people and livelihoods after the next. His head tilted, lowering, piercing eyes searching for hers where they desperately didn’t want to be found. Not fair he might’ve said, with a childish smirk, had she been able to hear those congruent, inward thoughts.

watch your body pull itself back together
then let your soul do the same

Darling please, just give us some time, and I swear we'll be alright

For all that it may be an allowance of her pernicious needling, the soft rumble of laughter is exactly the response she had desired, and as such she smiles and listens to it for however long she can. Joy is a scarce commodity in their lives. Admittedly she wants it more for him than herself, in one of her rare acts of selflessness. Helping him create it is the best she can do in this situation, but Hotaru has the nerve - the daring, in this world - to hope it will work all the same.

Hiding will not last her long, she is far too impatient a woman to match his steadfast nature, and the inquisitive tilt of his head feels like carbonation in her veins. When she chances a glance up at him in the unwinding silence, she wrinkles her nose a little at him, already sensing his playful nature without having to hear the words themselves and hating how easily he can bend her. All the same her eyes soften, something tired and deeply, deeply hurt flickering alongside the firelight in her gaze at his reassurance. "I know you would," she agrees, voice tempered and scarcely more than a murmur. She loves him for it. "But then I'd have to find a way to strip you of all your weapons, and I certainly can't do that to your magic." A weak smile plays on petal lips.

"He did not deserve you." It plays in thunderous rolls in her mind, the assurance that he'd proclaimed when she'd last come crying to him over Sunjata. All the same she had returned to the Flood, and yet somehow been shocked by the incompatibility of her lightning and his water. He would never do so, not now when the hurt is raw, but she is scared to tell him how right he was and open herself to potential derision over her inability to take his advice. How foolish she had been to try and make something out of nothing. To fool herself into believing she could be loved in the way her heart desires. Something more than table scraps, because Hotaru is tired of begging for that which should be freely given.

Moving to share his chair more than she already was, she wraps her thumbs around his where his hands still convalesce around her own, and though moments ago she couldn't hold his gaze now she cannot look away. Knowing he is reading her pain if nothing else. "Only listen, then. This is my burden, one I can't see on your shoulders. The only fixing I need you to do is to come with me when you're ready. Please." A word so unused in her vocabulary, and all the more imbued with gravity for it as she speaks it now. She knows he would be there at her side to fight for her honor, to dole out any measure of retribution, but Hotaru doesn't have the strength to do it now. Whatever vengeance may come, if he wants it, she asks that he will wait.

HOTARU

DEIMOS

ache first, but then let the cuts close
spit out the blood

There might’ve been a time where joy hadn’t been the fleeting measure – but those notions were almost as swift and disjointed as the notion itself. They came from lands where it was stripped away, piece by piece, in the jumbling of wreckage and the falling of kingdoms, in the wake of lives torn apart on mere motives and machinations, on the intrusion of forced steps and ignorance of warnings. Emblems of the powerful, pernicious, and potent; but also the fallen, weary, and exhausted, bloody and forsaken – stories and myths he knew, worn entirely into his flesh, bone, skin, and soul. So he wished they could find a way to snag and take those amusements for all they were worth, and not line them in the trenches of sorrow. To make them larger, grander, and not something earned from the bottom of a barrel, from the dregs and dredges of everything else. He’d once thought he didn’t deserve it – and maybe he still didn’t, but –

It was worth a try, and he’d attempt for her too.

An inkling of something materialized, besides and beyond the wrinkling of her nose, and he attempted to steel himself for the inevitable. The piercing juncture of his gaze immediately narrowed though at the weak smile, at the ominous declaration. “Why?” Which was something of a grumble, a low growl beginning to register in his chest. No dangerous overtures, no subversive beacons, but the certainty of ruins coiled their way down his throat. “What happened?”

And then she was wrapping her hands in over his, and he knew some other vile semblance had occurred, and the Sword had a few sharpened, meticulous calculations in the direction of where it’d come from. The final statements were enough to set him on razor-edges, ramparts already flickering and flaring between the pulse of his veins, the instant rigidity to his spine.

Because Hotaru understood he’d launch into some manner of sedition for her on a moment’s notice – and she didn’t want it.

Not his to embody – only her wrong to right. His puncturing eyes fell for a moment, sliding over conjoined hands and wooden floorboards, the echoes and rings of swords in the training grounds, the embers nestled in the fire. Swallowing down the traces of might and menace yearning, threatening, to linger over the surface, he instilled his promise and convictions, only sighing when he heard the please threading through. “I will not take your vengeance,” was another grumble; as if it pained him to say so. It was her's and her's alone.

watch your body pull itself back together
then let your soul do the same

Darling please, just give us some time, and I swear we'll be alright

Their small bubble of happiness is the only shield she has for the hole in her heart, and she basks in it while it's there, all too aware of the ephemeral nature of it. When it pops, she can feel the gravity of his attention as it falls upon her. As intense and focused as the rest of the man. There is a safety to that gravity, yes, but also an expectant nature that she knows she can't duck away from. If she were to truly object, Hotaru is sure that he would recede into waitfulness until she was ready. It's tempting. All the same it's just as tempting to bleed the infection from the wound.

His assurance is a grumbling, reluctant thing. It strikes a smile from the stony flint of her mouth, a squeeze from her hands where they are still intertwined with his own. She may ask it of him. If she is not strong enough to do so herself, burdened and restrained by her own emotional ties and vows as she is, she knows she can turn to him. "I may need you to," she admits softly, drawing her gaze back up to Deimos' clear blue. "But not until after. We both need to rest." Definitive. She knows she needs it as much as he does.

Distracting herself, she stares down at their hands, examining the differences in their skin tone. Scars, callouses. Shared blood that may not be readily visible - long washed off - but which stains them all the same. "When I returned from the Wilds, it was hours before the sun went down for LongNight. Nate left for the Grounds to assist Wessex. I stayed with Sunjata in the new house." Now another half-burned skeleton, the same as the first. Perhaps it's some sort of poetic sign. "A woman named Vai, someone he is close to, was left badly injured on our doorstep. Remi and Ronin came to confront Sunjata about it, and Remi created some sort of...dream? In which he killed Sunjata to ensure it was truly not him. After that, Sunjata told me his father had returned, had broken his wing and drugged him over time. It was his accent that Vai had recognized." The actions of the demigods seem so far away now, so inconsequential in comparison to all that has tumbled down in the time between. Her rage is muted, quiet. Overshadowed by how she wants to make him hurt the way Remi had. An evil sort of veil, but one she has never pretended not to have.

"He kept that information from me. We got into...a terrible fight. He refused to let me help or be involved, said I would stand no chance against his father. That I would be nothing more than another body on his doorstep, just more fodder." Hurt crinkles the corners of her lips, the space between fair brows. Wondering briefly if Deimos will know how badly that had hurt. She suspects he will. To have all assumption of power stripped from her, to be told her death would mean nothing, to be forbidden to take arms up on behalf of her loved one...and then the minuscule knife of the selective use of his grammar, calling it his doorstep. "He made me promise to come here, to you. Until it was over. I planned on lying, but...well, it never came to pass." And yet here she is all the same. Ironic, but not unexpected. Hotaru will always find her way back to Deimos, even Sunjata knew that, had suggested it for precisely that reason.

"Nate never made it back home. He was kidnapped, badly tortured. A mob attacked Sunjata, partially burned the house. He challenged his father publicly, killed him, but the two went over a cliff into the ocean. Nate came home with me, and we...waited. Searching did nothing, he came home on his own." Here, things become much more difficult to talk about, and her hands squeeze restlessly at Deimos' hands. Lifting her gaze at last, she bares her red-rimmed eyes to him and tries to summon a mockery of a smile that trembles violently. "He told me that Nate wanted children, that he'd been finally considering them himself. With me." A lump swells into her throat to cut off any further explanation. With him, she doesn't need it. He'd been there through almost all of her children, born and blessed alike. Had seen how different she was with her children. Knew that she had been forced to raise them alone each and every time, betrayed by every love she'd ever known. Hotaru has been searching for family since she was a child, building it up piece by piece only to have them stripped away, crueler and crueler each time. The prospect of children...it was a monumental offering, a euphoria just within reach, and she has to swallow hard - throat clicking painfully - to end that dream with her own words all over again.

"He swore we would leave Safrin as a last resort. He knew it would come with too high a cost. I was already planning to ask the Voice to assist in regards to Nate, or perhaps Frey, but...the next night, he went to her." Her nails dig into Deimos' palm sharply, reflexive, and she drops his hands like she's been burned the second she realizes it, regret shining in her eyes as she quickly flips his hands to ensure she didn't leave any marks. Staring down at the lines in his palm, she takes a moment to compose herself. What little she can. "Nate saw the Voice the same time. When he returned he told us she had made him into a demigod." A change she'd intended to celebrate, despite her misgivings about the gods on both sides. "But Sunjata...he had made a deal with Safrin. She would have his child, and he would care for it and raise it. He would become a more active soldier for her against the Ascended. In return, she would save Nate if the Voice was destroyed during the coming war. Only now, he is beyond her idea of saving." Hotaru has to withdraw her hands entirely, nails piercing into her own palms so that she does not do it to her best friend. Breath moves faster in her lungs, rage and hurt born anew with how fresh the wound is, and yet it festers all the same. Poisonous, rotten, infected. Slipping into her bloodstream to kill her slowly from the inside.

"I...I stabbed him. With the dagger he gave me. But she had marked him with a tattoo, and it moved and healed him. And he told us that he thinks she left something inside him as well." Tipping forward helplessly, she buries her face into his chest, curled up like a wounded animal as she draws her legs sideways over his own, fully encroaching on his space. He won't reject her, she knows that she is one of the few who can so boldly claim the warmth of his embrace without fear of retribution. "I don't know what to do," she whimpers, a quiet tear finally streaking down her cheek, crawling slow until she lifts a hand to wipe it away. It's the only outlet she has for the hurt. No further tears come. The rage, the loss, it is too great a boulder in the path of that sadness. "Nate and I told him we will never forgive him. But I think Nate is willing to stay. To try." Pulling her head back from Deimos' chest, she stares at him, eyes like voids that crackle with the lightning in her soul. Knowing he can see deep inside her, to the Valkyrie she has always been. Remorseless, unforgiving, damning. "I'm not sure I can try."

HOTARU

DEIMOS

ache first, but then let the cuts close
spit out the blood

Calm and compliant, ready and willing and able; justifications of lives long-forged in waiting. In watching, In conspiring. In patience fused with fortitude, so the might and menace had a place to curl and contort, so the Machiavellian moments had their aptitude, so the resolve had options. The first surprise though, by show of his raised brows and widened eyes, was that her admittance of his vengeful tactics might be required. Did this mean she was unwilling to do it on her own? Or something else? Deeper? More painful?

He gave no answer yet – but stole a breath for her on another sharp inhale, and waited for the pieces to come together.

And so they did, in perhaps one of the wildest stories he’d ever heard. His hands held hers as she poured out her heart, as a range of emotions (contempt, mostly, for the being who has instigated all of this nonsense) quietly sunk into his normal reticence. LongNight’s press had apparently been far more overbearing, overwhelming, amongst the beaches and sands, nodding at the known prowess of Vai (the first one to tell him he couldn’t be healed by ordinary, magical means), the injuries, the justification of Remi and Ronin storming in. Whether or not he agreed with their sentiments didn’t scarcely matter; the tale unfurled further and further, until he had to wonder how the hell Sunjata maintained any power at all, when he could barely control himself. When everything haphazard and stupefying, bewildering and astounding, happened to fall upon him. Harpooned and beleaguered. Measured and weighed. Easy to calculate and manipulate. Pickings and fodder for his own father, and for Safrin.

At the mention of her inability to help, his fingers enveloped over hers, and gave them a gentle squeeze. He did know better, far better, than most, and Sunjata’s ignorance of the Valkyrie’s abilities would, could, be yet another downfall. There, a low rumble began in his throat, immersed from his chest, a grating sort of harshness in the annals of truth and veracity. “You will never mean nothing. You must know that.” But there she was, tossed aside again, and his expression softened, all too briefly, before it slowly began to chip and carve away into contemptuous angles again. What his enemies might’ve seen right before an ominous plunge of his blade – when the indifference, reticence, and apathy was gone, and in its place was just a cold, chilling dominion of persecution and devastation.

Nate kidnapped. Home destroyed. Sunjata disappeared and unfortunately risen once more from the waves. A seemingly endless saga, and how it had only taken place over one season was appalling.

His calloused palms were still for her when she mentioned the children, and the monolith could recall her series of offspring. The love she had for them. The affection and strength and dominion. That they’d been planning. And that it scarcely seemed to matter. And while her nails pulled at his flesh, he braced, unfolding only so she had opportunity to escape in her frustrations, in her anger. No marks, nothing worth mentioning. A taking of her anguish, if only for a moment.

The indication, however, that Nate was a new demigod, forged by the Voice, left some sickening plunge in the back of his throat.

And then a child of Safrin and Sunjata.

The Sword’s gaze went to her at the notion of the fool’s betrayal. Of her shattered dreams. Of a youth destined to be brought forth on deals and trades (and how could they occur, how they could be accomplished – how could Nate even be saved when his soul was already taken?), and not her own.

A length of pride sauntered across his mouth though when she described her efforts – a stabbing. He could imagine her undiminished anger, the ferocity, the spirit of animosity for every other stupid, idiotic thing the Flood had ever done – and then the lightest of disappointments when it was not to be.

So Deimos took her in his arms and placed her across his chest, where restless, antagonized heartbeats could rest for a moment, where he could encircle and comfort and process. It took him a few moments, mind whirling with the possibilities, with the words, with the effort of resolving not to immediately leave and finish what he’d started on the beach. Or along the hunt, where he’d promised to annihilate and brutalize should anything happen again. And here they were. This wasn’t a place for his anger – tempting as it was – not when Hotaru required his support. So he'd start at the source.

“I will never understand your affection for that imbecile.” And he’d told her before, in between her tears, her strife, her loss over this dumb, foolish, stupid man, that he hadn’t deserved her. Yet, in some repeated, ridiculous crescendo, she followed the lure like so many others. Damned and doomed in Sunjata's wake of crowning delusions and dense, vapid, vacuous measures. “Why would you want to stay?” He shook his cranium, cradled her head into the crook of his shoulder and brawn, and sighed. The bottom of his jaw settled on top of her blonde hair for a moment, pondering all the while. “When has he ever shown you he is worth it?”

watch your body pull itself back together
then let your soul do the same

Darling please, just give us some time, and I swear we'll be alright

Through it all, when she dares to lift her gaze away from their hands, she can see the lines of contempt that crease into his face. His distaste for Sunjata has always been readily apparent, and for reasons Hotaru had understood even with love clouding her logic. She can't help but fear the backlash, the 'I told you so', even though she knows he would never do that when she is beaten so low. It's what gives her the ability to lower her defenses to reveal all that has happened, and her own unfortunately ridiculous inclusion in it all. Admitting her wrongs has never been an ingrained talent of hers. Still, it's a necessity if she wants to purge the rotten feeling festering away underneath her skin.

The gentle squeeze of his hands brings a tremulous wobble to her lips as she falls quiet, enough for his words to wash over her. It's like sinking beneath still water, muffling all sound and holding her gently from all sides. A redemption she didn't know she needed. Assurance that helps to heal the lacerations left behind by Sunjata's words. "I know," she responds weakly, squeezing his hands back. "But for him to say it...at least I know how he sees me."Incapable, something to be sequestered away and protected instead of trusted to stand at his side. The cage he intended to keep her in may have been fashioned from some version of love, but it was a cage all the same.

The words take everything out of her. So much to say, to share. An eternity wrapped up into the length of a season with no regard for how much a single person could take. Until she'd stepped through the portal to the biting cold of Halo, Hotaru had not felt as if she'd been given a single moment of reprieve. But it was not until now with Deimos to shield her from the world that she felt safe enough to let everything come pouring out, walls lowered and tired heart vulnerable. Their shared moment of pride for her revenge bolsters her enough to get her through to the end, and then she is simply incapable of holding on any longer. Like a marionette with severed strings, she folds, articulated joints haphazardly cradled up against his chest and porcelain cracked from the strain of holding all this inside.

His silence is not accusatory, and as such she is given the time to think over it all just as he is. The melodic crackle of the fire wraps around the two of them like a shawl, lulling her as she presses her cheek to his chest to feel and hear his heart beating through his shirt. This is a sound far more soothing than the fire could hope to provide. Steady and unyielding, a metronome of his continuing existence. Here, she is not alone, and she knows if she says the word then she will not have to be for the foreseeable future. When Deimos speaks she feels that too, all along her skin where they are pressed together, and she hides in the thunder of his voice; the perfectly compatible source for her own lightning soul.

"What was there for him is gone now," croaks free of her lips, as sure of his as she has ever been when it comes to her own muddled feelings. Hotaru is no model of emotional maturity, but a betrayal of this level requires no further contemplation or rumination. Those strings have been severed and singed, impossible to tie back together. "I would stay for Nate. But I know that they love each other, far more than they individually love me. I thought I could accept that, honor it, so long as we were all together. But now..." trailing off, she bites her lip, trying to find the right words for all this if they exist at all. "Nate will forgive him, and they will move on without me." Reaching for his hand, she grips it tight and brings it in to cradle in the minuscule space between their bodies. "And that just leaves us. Back at the start." No Amalia. No Rexanna. No Nate or Sunjata. Just the two of them, tossed aside toys trying to gather enough spare parts to function anew.

HOTARU

DEIMOS

ache first, but then let the cuts close
spit out the blood

Perhaps the Flood lived in a world of transitory delusions. Actions and actions and actions without consequences, momentary, and never long enough to matter. From one ruin to the next, no moments to breathe, no seconds or instances to reflect before he instigated more damage. He’d managed to lay waste to people, to places, and to relationships with such an incredible ease, that the Sword was constantly baffled why so many flocked to him. What was charming about the way he devastated others? About how he used and battered around? About how single thoughts entered his brain, and then left an instant later? Maybe they were far too different to ever be understood – and Deimos would've been fine with that, if Hotaru hadn’t been involved.

But she’d known too. And still meandered and sauntered her way into the life of an unrelenting moron. As if things would’ve changed. As if things would’ve been different. The monolith was half-tempted to mutter and utter the notions, but kept them locked and tethered away, behind his teeth, in his mullings and musings. She would’ve had a multitude of “I told you so’s” for him as well.

So Deimos could comfort instead in the best way he knew how. To offer reality. To dig into the void, pull her out of the abyss, and let them settle in there, ruminate in between the hurt and the chaos. Figure out the next steps. Where she wanted to be. What she wanted to do. Extend something not out of anguish or despair, but the candor and sincerity of a friend. Her words lingered against his chest and he shook his head, ensuring his jaw still rested on top of hers like a beastly crown. “It will be like nothing changed.” Astounding and bewildering – and maybe others admired that kind of selfish, egocentric compassion and love – but he’d never be one of them. Let Nate and Sunjata be drawn into their stupefying haze, chaotically distort and contort about their own lives, and cease to drag everyone else down with them. “But you do not need to be in that wreckage.” It sounded not only painful, but exhausting, overwhelming, overbearing, to awaken each day and wonder what next set of tribulations a single idiot would descend and throw upon the world. They’d all had their fair share of mistakes and disasters, but Sunjata seemed to openly invite them.

She took his hand and he allowed it, softening a sigh bombarding through his chest. “We tried.” For a moment his voice sounded mildly defeated – as if it was always going to end up the same way as before, nothing and love and then nothing again – but the sad inklings of a smile corded around his mouth, where she couldn’t see. “We have Kiada too.”

The Harpy was not to be forgotten, though he wasn’t sure what was going to occur, not with the ominous weight of the horizons. “Which could be another eventual dilemma.”

watch your body pull itself back together
then let your soul do the same

Darling please, just give us some time, and I swear we'll be alright

Hotaru is more than aware of her own faults in this. Whatever song had lured her in had ensnared her. Clipped her lightning wings and left her docile and tame, begging for any crumb of affection and devotion from the moment Sunjata had comforted her as she had told him her story. How long has it been now? Since she felt like the powerful woman she has always been? When had her dream of domesticity and mutual support turned into a game of one-sided compromises? Once more she feels like that ugly young girl, staring into the water days after leaving home too soon, desperate for any kind of love that she could use as proof that she was worth something.

Maybe she had never outgrown that. Maybe she still lurks beneath all of her hard-earned prowess.

But Hotaru has the strength to look that ghost in the eye and realize when enough is enough. She is not incapable of realizing her mistakes, and she is unwilling to let them cripple her. It makes it all the easier to melt into Deimos' chest, feeling like the dawn has come at last after endless darkness, bringing with it clarity and decisiveness she has been sorely needing.

His words are the hand that she needs in order to pull herself from the soil, out of the grave she'd dug for the love she'd felt for Sunjata. "No. I think...I think this is it. For good." As much as it hurts when those words pass her teeth, effectively deciding the end to her relationship with Sunjata, there is a lightness to her shoulders that follows in its wake. There is freedom, even if with that freedom comes loneliness, a cold bed, and skin that aches with a desire to be touched as it once was. At least that pain is more bearable than what she feels now. It's a familiar friend, that pain. One Hotaru knows she can at least survive.

Deimos' defeated gust of words has her bending her head to press a gentle kiss to his scarred knuckles. "There is nothing wrong with us, for being too willing to try." It is not their fault for having open hearts, even when history should have boarded up those entryways long ago.

After a moment, the mention of Kiada has her straightening, cheek once more finding his clavicle as she stares at the fire flickering in the corner of her eyes. "Is there a way we could steal her soul back? She never seemed to want to Ascend like Rexanna. Does she even want to be what she is?" With Safrin's promise - no matter how much of a lie it may have been - lingering on her mind, she wonders if perhaps they can prevent themselves from losing yet another loved one to the coming war.

HOTARU

DEIMOS

ache first, but then let the cuts close
spit out the blood

A stone, a rock, a monolith carved and sculpted from patience and fortitude, he simply waited again. Let the words sink in. Let them ruminate and wander. Let them come to pass as they were; modicums of his opinion, but never the end-all, be-all. That was Hotaru’s decision to make – to either wander back into the midst of the Flood and his tidal waves, his drowning abyss, his title and platitudes all finally making sense, or to find herself again, claw and tear and rip and maim. When they used to be Reapers and Valkyries and cold, glacial storms against the world. Where his heart had been a mauled, embittered, rancorous threshold, before it withered and decayed and blackened now. Where she’d been a monarch of triumph over tragedy, no matter how many seemed to encompass her existence.

What a pair.

Deimos remained silent while she stoked and finalized her choice, for good buried in the wood of the room, in the crackling of the fire, in the quiet breaths Zuriel took, in the perma-winter expanse outside. “Do what is best for you,” he rumbled again; and if it was leaving the fools behind to sort out their own messes, their own priorities, then so be it. She could make another stand somewhere else, clamber to arms, rustle in her spirits, awaken some other fortitude, some other might, she’d buried along the way, when she was trying to compensate for a life with an idiot. No need, not now, not when the realm was threatening to crack and fray.

He laughed when she brushed her lips against his knuckles, a ticklish sensation, and he would’ve swatted her away if he still hadn’t been holding her. Another sigh echoed and reverberated after that, his head shaking on top of hers, a muffled sort of grumble flickering past the normally closed and clenched jaws. “Maybe I was not worth the effort.” And Amalia had come to realize that, seen it, well before he ever had. The beast furrowed his brows again, aching over this self-inflicted wound, and stared back down at the floor, a multitude of emotions rotting through.

And then there was Kiada – and the monolith could recall pieces, portions, of conversation he’d started to enact upon on notions of the Penumbra. “Maybe. I had asked Ludo and Mort’s demigod if there was a way, because of Rexanna.” He released her a little, in case she wanted to maneuver away while he settled into plots and schemes. “Supposedly she holds the souls somewhere high in the mountains.” But that was all he’d received.

The inquiry thereafter though pierced, over similar conversations they’d had, over the wayward way she’d been resurrected and come back to them. “She made her choice. She knew who she was following.” And his features then grew very grim, threatening to fold back into nonchalance rather than face the likelihood of damnation hovering over them once more.

watch your body pull itself back together
then let your soul do the same

Darling please, just give us some time, and I swear we'll be alright

Oh if only she were privy to his ruminations. How she longs for those titles of old, the power they'd wielded side by side in those icy reaches. The fight never ceases. The faces of their foes may change, but the blood on their hands only darkens, never fades. Despite these trials, through every adversity, he has been at her back. This is merely one more battle to be won. Does it matter if it is her heart that is the battleground? He will not steal her victory from her grasping fingertips, will only support her as her vanguard, her equal in all ways. It makes the definitive answer all the easier to find and hold, to cradle in her throat before she gives it life.

A soft hum of agreement follows his advice. She knows this will be what, as he says, is best for her. Easy? Far from it. But Hotaru has not survived as long as she has by being entirely selfless. She may not have much, but she does have her pride, and that has kept her alive at times when her self-worth was nothing more than ashes. The trail ahead is finally clear. Now all that is left is to walk it.

His laughter pulls her from her musings, and he can likely feel the smile against his knuckles before she lowers their paired hands obligingly. It is an uplifting - if temporary - respite. They both need more laughter these days, but the sound alone is enough to brighten her spirits. Only long enough to illuminate the path before they are drawn back into the mire. This time her lips pull downward into a frown, and she turns as best she can against his chest while his captive hand is squeezed. "You are worth every bit of effort. There is nothing I would not do for you. She is just as large a fool as Sunjata if she could not see you for who you are and appreciate you all the more for it." Had she built him up in her head the same way people often did to Hotaru? Purposefully blinding themselves to the darkness, the cloaked daggers and stained hands? The baker is a naive, gentle thing. If Amalia did not hold appreciation for the might and power that built up Deimos into the Sword that delivered justice when she had him, then she was delusional. It disgusts Hotaru, but she is more concerned with gently guiding his mind back onto a path of self-worth than she is with tearing down the Shield.

At first Hotaru doesn't understand what he means when he says she made her choice. When it sinks in, her stomach twists, and she feels slightly ill. "Then all we can do is try to prepare her. Help her figure out her new abilities. Pray she is not making the same mistake as last time." There is a defeated, dark underbelly to her tone. All too aware of how similar this situation is to when Kiada had sworn herself to Kisamoa. Her heart quails away at the notion of losing the Harpy once more, but it is an ending she must force herself to consider, if only to prepare for the inevitable loss.

HOTARU

DEIMOS

ache first, but then let the cuts close
spit out the blood

Perhaps it was some semblance of liberation. A deliverance, a repose, a peace in the quandaries, in the quagmires, of doubt, alterations, and change. Deimos hadn’t truly been given a choice in his – but Hotaru had, and here she could begin to stitch the seams, undo the fraying strands, snip off the ones that would go nowhere. There were more things to do, to forge along, to begin the knots of ferocity all over again. Different circumstances and different worlds they might’ve been, but the way chaos unraveled, the way monsters glorified, the way gods beckoned and battled, held striking similarities.

He nearly laughed at her agreement, but choked it down and notched it tightly in his chest. May she take satisfaction in ripping the Flood away from her, may she take glory in the way she could conquer the waves. Be more than the weight of him pulling her down, down, down.

The Sword muffled a self-deprecating tone or joke at the next set of vocals. A part of him didn’t want to believe it. It was easier, far, far easier, to simply remain in the toils of his loathing, of his errors, of his mistakes, of his flaws. There were many. They were numerous. They maintained their defiant chords all over the surface of his soul, and lingered towards the bottom too, inward and across scars that weren’t immediately visible. Deimos had always maintained them well – through his anger and vehemence, through his misgivings and silence. But what would it be like to believe her sentiments? A half-smile curled its way there again, on the edges of his mouth, as the sullen sigh wafted through. There would be no chiding of the Shield; not from him. “Thank you,” applied instead, as he tried to form a way to considering the confidences.

Then the monolith listened – the same forged apprehension beginning in his lungs, in his ribs, that he’d been ignoring for a long time. “She has astounding speed. New armor.” And more to come – growing as they all did within the boundaries of Caido. Given enough time. Given enough effort. He hadn’t been around for Kisamoa, but Kiada had told him the stories, and it made an impression on him now too, in the way that he squeezed her hand back, a strangled worry curling through his fingertips. “I will do the best I can, but I intend to help destroy the Voice.” Lines drawn. They’d done it before, and they’d do it again. Where would Hotaru be? How would it affect Kiada? Would they have to face the same sort of decisions and choices that Sunjata had – in that loved ones were due to be on opposite ends?

watch your body pull itself back together
then let your soul do the same

Darling please, just give us some time, and I swear we'll be alright

Hotaru can almost sense the indignation and rejection swelling up in his throat, prepares to lambast once more, to spear into the heart of those insecurities the moment they overflow. Consistency is key. If it takes telling him a thousand times then so be it. It's almost disappointing then when his grumbles and gruff objections do not come to fruition, locked inside instead where they are due to fester away from her cauterizing touch. Instead there is his gratitude. While she suspects he murmurs it only to get her off his case, she can hope that somewhere her words are taking root. Small seeds of implanted thought that will blossom into a garden of worthiness in his mind. "Any time," she promises with a squeeze of his fingers, wanting to give him these words more than any other token response of welcome. A vow for the future, for any day he may need to hear redemption and recognition from someone else's heart.

In the meantime, there are great worries to take up residence in her mind. Teeth worry at her bottom lip, contemplative and overwhelmed by the prospect of standing on opposite sides of the war as her niece. It makes Sunjata's choice all the more damning in comparison. The only other Ascended she cares for is Wessex and Nate, and well...they are demigods. They have made their choice. Hotaru just can't let history repeat itself, can't watch this world crumble beneath a false god. "I do as well." It's a horrible decision to have to make; she may love the Ascended, but Hotaru cannot turn a blind eye to the Voice herself. Not when she watched Kisamoa destroy her children, her friends, her entire world. She can't do it again. "I intend to ask Frey to attune me in some way, if they are willing. I cannot do much as an Abandoned." Though she will never forsake her magic, the lightning that has been a part of her since the beginning.

HOTARU

DEIMOS

ache first, but then let the cuts close
spit out the blood

True; it was partially so that he wouldn’t have to hear the assurances over and over again, or so that she’d back away from coming too close to the emotional barriers and walls he’d fortified. Hotaru knew him far better than most, but two breakdowns in a single day wasn’t on his agenda. It would take more time, more thoughts, more ruminations, to force the likelihoods back upon himself, to visualize them as truths rather than some unjust statement not meant for him. When one spent lifetimes presuming they didn’t deserve much of anything, save for backlash on every sin they’d committed, pondering over a change in their circumstances would take more than a few moments. The Sword had years of carefully constructed beliefs in the core of his soul, and not many of them had been good. So he squeezed her fingers back in return, another sigh weighing its way through, as if his lungs had already tried to expel the nuances out. You are worth every bit of effort; and if they echoed and reverberated back enough times, maybe he’d understand it.

The Valkyrie’s claim of the Old Gods’ side didn’t surprise him – despite their Abandoned natures, they’d at least come to comprehend what the Voice was. The how and why and when and where notched in between scarcely mattered now, but it was coming, and they had no ability to stop it. But the General wanted these notions to be his choices, and naught forced upon him in seasons to come.

“Now, that is not true,” and he grinned. The wealth of powers at his disposal, mastered, controlled, and damaging, had come after practice, strength, might, and menace. “But there are advantages to attuning,” and he pulled her back slightly, so that she might see the top of his head, where the tiger ears instantly appeared; swiveling back and forth.

watch your body pull itself back together
then let your soul do the same