DEIMOS
Heave the silver hollow sliver
“I do not,” he sneered in a very boyish decree, half-inclined to stick his tongue out, but refraining; otherwise shying away as she went to pinch and poke. Grabbing at the stripped away layers, intending to hang them somewhere once they meandered inside, Deimos relented at the age-old manifestations of tucking everything away, striving to keep his head above the surface of wounds, scars, lacerations, and the number of other influences shaping the way they maneuvered. From deep in his pockets, he snagged at one of the collected treats for Zuriel, offering it out to Atlas, scratching at the unicorn’s ears. The smell of stew eventually lured him away though, and he obediently followed into the reign of its aroma, listening at Hotaru’s description, at her tactics, at the way she chose to settle into roles they’d long since established. “There were not many wars we stayed out of,” and he laughed – less hollowed, more contorted and created in the regions of recollections, taking hold of his bowl. “Thank you,” in response, eternally polite. Thereafter he found a chair, pulling it out for himself, leaving her a space wherever she craved, and then sighing, flicking at the spoon for a moment, long fingers distractedly maneuvering around the resin. I worry about Kiada fumbled around his brain; but he saved that too, allowed it to occupy space for another day. “Let me know what they say,” came on a childish inclination, a tilted head, with a cranium for inquiry and curiosity.
Unite and spread the heart apart
