[se] came back alive

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Inclinations to check the Citadel walls, as per the normal regime and routine, spurned him along, walking familiar paths and outlines. Belial followed closely behind, trailing every once in a while to inspect something else or stalk an absent-minded ningo, until Deimos snorted something under his breath and the young peryton shot forward again. Otherwise, the Sword’s gaze meandered upon stones, if any appeared weak, crackling, or falling apart, he figured he could manifest some manner of his earthen incantations, and restore the segments back to their former glory. At some point, some proportions would likely need to be replaced. But so occupied with these nuances and thoughts, amongst a multitude of others, that he failed to notice the presence of melted snow. With some amount of surprise, the beast found one of his boots suddenly deeply immersed in a puddle, and drew back quickly as the cold water hit his feet. Puzzled and perplexed, because defrosting and softening rarely occurred in Halo, he wondered if the summer’s presence had truly caused an effect, or if someone else with similar water powers had been nearby, hastening another project. Nonetheless, it was the only reaction he had time for, because no sooner had he found the cascading droplets, did Belial fully descend with a mighty splash into its denizens – soaking anyone and everyone nearby. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace

Elide

Elide sits along the side of a wall, deeply immersed in a leatherbound journal she's scribbling away in. A sketch, actually, of Ursurs. She's currently working on notes about their weaknesses and strengths. She'd been perusing the libraries about them, taken back to her research as the monster hunter guild may very well plan to hunt one of them soon. It wouldn't be her first time, but it never hurts to refresh one's memory.

The puddles surrounding her, she paid no mind to; the people passing her, she paid little mind to. Though a familiar set of stocky shoulders does catch her attention, and her dark gaze lifts up to observe Deimos' slow approach. He appears purposeful, so she doesn't speak up yet, merely watching him and his companion.

They get closer and Elide prepares to extend a greeting when suddenly a flurry of movement sends water cascading across her lap - and, consequentially, the page of work it's opened to. Elide flinches, so as to avoid any water in her eyes, but finds her journal completely soaked through. Her reaction to this is only a fleeting flare of agitation, but.. alas, it's already happened.

"Well, I did think that working outside might've been too risky," she says aloud, mostly to herself, "I suppose I was right after all." With that, she clasps the book shut and stands. Water dribbles from her clothes, but fortunately they were made well enough to prevent getting her soaked. Not that it would be too much of a bother for her, really. Glancing up to the man before her, she nods in greeting, "Deimos. I see your companion is in good spirits today!"

never before had the song of war
been the song of hope ascending

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame He hadn’t noticed Elide; too occupied with the stones, with the wall, and now the puddle and Belial’s antics, and there was half a semblance where he might’ve winced at the implications of disturbing another’s work. The Sword chanced a glance towards the voice, stare flickering back to the Ascended with regret already audibly concentrated behind his teeth. “My apologies,” and he clicked his mouth shut – multitudes of things forming in his mind. Instead of voicing any of them, the General notched another silent warning to Belial. The peryton felt the pulse, lifting his head from the rise of droplets cascading all around him; impulsive where Deimos so frequently wasn’t, it hadn’t seemed to dawn on the youth to even process the nuances and gathering of others nearby. A very quiet chiding ambled through, and the deer had the wherewithal to appear very sheepish, ceasing, the puddle up to his little fetlocks, wings diminished and askew, head lowered. “Quite,” he sighed, permitting the companion to make a quick escape before anything else was mottled and mired. From the corner of his eyes, he glanced at the book held in her hands, and didn’t craft a smile. “Is your work ruined?” And within a moment thereafter, he concocted mastered water incantations – striving to summon the barrage, the soaking prowess, out of the pages, out of the paper, before it was too late, drawing, drawing, drawing it all back into the ether. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace

Elide

Elide shakes her head dismissively of his apologies, thinking that it's perhaps her who owes him the apologies - but she doesn't voice her multitudes either. She does glance down toward Belial as he seems to realize his mistake. The nonverbal apology he offers is a pleasant surprise. "It's okay. No real harm done," she tells the creature gently, whether it can understand or not.

At the question of her work, she looks down at the journal in her hands. A tipped brow directs back at him and her lips part to tell him it's nothing she couldn't redraft, when suddenly the water seems to be sucked right out of the fibers of the pages.

She startles with some surprise, lifting the book to watch with intrigue as it happens. When it's over, she parts the pages to see that it's as if it never happened. "Hm," she chuckles softly and clasps it shut once more, tucking it within the crook of her arm. "Not anymore, thank you," she says and looks back up at him.

There's a pregnant pause after this, as she seems to consider something. "I regret that we haven't spoken much since LongNight," she says, "I should have come to tell you what happened." Why she hadn't remains unsaid. That didn't really matter, and she's not one for excuses anyway. Old patterns are hard to give up, though. She's not used to being apart of people's lives, though the obligation rests there anyway, and she feels some amount of guilt - especially after seeing him at Noah's. There had been something in the air and she realized it then, her mistake.

never before had the song of war
been the song of hope ascending

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame A nod granted and given as the incantations took hold, snagging at their tethered vestiges, before they descended back into the puddle, where they belonged until they froze back over. Thereafter, he thought about maneuvering along, and leaving Elide to her work, not bothered by either perytons or Generals. A turn, a twist of his head, to stare back upon stones and continue onward, checking over the walls. Except his attention deviated right back to her at the words cast, and he ceased the sharpened, wayward movement, the arch of his brow giving way while he swallowed something down. The temptation to wave it all off and away was great; as if nothing had happened or transpired, that he wasn’t upset, that it hadn’t rattled at him. Pretenses and feigning were easy, happenstance, mustered in reticent airs and nonchalant roots – but he’d been trying to place new ones, gradually, slowly, without the fear of backlash on the other side. It was difficult to subside the habit, but he inhaled, exhaled, and launched his piercing gaze on her. “I thought you had perished,” and here his jaw clenched, feathered, rolling a little as if waylaying some other expression from coming through. “Kiada came home, and then I did not see you.” His eyes lifted, pinning back on the stones, on the other citizens nearby also gathering near the melted snow, as if they were mystified too. The Sword suddenly wished he were steel again, going back and forth on the influx of weights and dominions. Would it have been greater, grander, if he didn’t care at all? He once presumed it hurt less. “I have lost many people: friends, family, and comrades alike.” Stare went downcast, before rounding back to her; a shrug yearning to bite through, but that would’ve made it seem all right too, like it was gone, like it was fleeting. “So I was worried.” Then she reappeared, and nothing was ever said. And he didn’t ask now – presuming it was still something she didn’t wish to share. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace

Elide

Deimos thought she'd been killed and Elide immediately feels humbled by it. The Ascended aren't really inclined to feel things physically, so perhaps this emotion is all the stronger for it. She bows her head and lowers her brows just after catching the way his jaw rolls as if restraining something. Her lips purse tightly together. Self-frustration curls into her shoulders, drawing them tight.

As the general brings his hard stare back to her, she will give him the respect of meeting it at least. For a while she doesn't say anything in return, though her fingernails fidget against the skin of her palms. "I am sorry..." her voice parts her lips in that eventual way, though it's not because of reluctance. His words and sentiments are heavy, and she hadn't expected him to care so much.

"I won't give you excuses, I should have came directly back to inform you of my wellbeing. I am not used to this... to being apart of greater things. Your feelings, the feelings of anyone else... weren't considered in that, and that was wrong of me. I wish I could tell you that I fought bravely, but.. the real battle wasn't fought from my position. We spent much of LongNight in hiding, running. We had to, there were others that didn't wish to fight at all. Or couldn't. There was a child there, Deimos..." she grits her teeth and looks off to the side, over rooftops of surrounding buildings as they line the sky with their dark silhouettes. "I think a part of me wished that I had died, but even that isn't something I fully understand."

never before had the song of war
been the song of hope ascending

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Perhaps that was part of the problem too. A greater majority of the world expected him not to care; had seen the angles of his pretenses and masks, had thought the voids and reticence all truth, rather than a way to disguise the pain, torment, and anguish of worse days. But he’d hoped that his constituents, fellow citizens, people he’d sworn to protect, defend, teach, and shield, didn’t think him so utterly indifferent. Too immersed in his own head, unaware of the way his guarded platitudes truly hurtled and harpooned – and he’d have to eventually skewer those pitiful methods of communication. His mouth opened at her apology, half-inclined to say it was no matter, but then she carried on, and he listened. Prone to being the rock, the marble, the granite, the stone, in which people cast their worries, their disbeliefs, and their frameworks, he absorbed the multitudes. A different view from the one Kiada had given him all those months ago: while the Harpy had been valiant and proud, Elide seemed diminished, downcast, by the way things had maneuvered. A child (Azrael; he presumed) and the rest of them: hiding, running, fleeing from something far more dangerous, far more powerful, far more devious, and the General saw no shame in it. “You survived, and that is success enough.” His eyes didn’t leave her, though his head tilted, open and pondering. “I accept your apology. But do not believe people do not care about you.” At her next admittance though, his gaze went downward; because gods it was a feeling he’d grappled with so many times before. Of when reaching to the surface was too much, and there was only so much strength left. Why Elide would feel that way though – especially when she couldn’t fathom or comprehend it from her own perspective – was a line that maybe neither wanted to cross. Instead, he breathed again, wandering closer, back to the puddle that Belial meandered through. “LongNight has never been about a glorified battle.” Nothing like the tales of old, nothing like the wars he’d been tossed within. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace

Elide

Elide lifts her chin and her eyes widen a bit, looking over the details of his grave expression, searching for some lie within it, some amount of scorn or disappointment. If he does feel those things, she can't tell. His words seem genuine and she will have to take them at face value.

That is certainly where she'd been wrong, in thinking that it would be a glorious victory, that it would feel triumphant. All she feels now is regret, and that can't be explained either because they had won... As far as any of them knew, the monsters were expunged from the earth and the world would be a safer place for it now. But none of that is able to really sink in.

"It feels as if we lost more than we gained," those lives snuffed out, whether they wanted to continue on or not, were still lives - and they were lives no more. "I thought I would be okay no matter the outcome, I thought, if I survived, I would be more prepared for future battles... but this feeling is hard to shake, and even harder to describe," she admits quietly, and in saying this she isn't attempting to spark an argument. Perhaps she's just desperate for the wisdom and experience she knows him to have, and her dark gaze turns hopeful for some sort of enlightenment. "It doesn't feel like success."

never before had the song of war
been the song of hope ascending

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Even in victories, there was always a little bit of hollowed, emptied proportions. Wounds not quite sealed, not quite sewn, not quite alleviated. Perhaps where fallen comrades laid, in between ribcages and hearts, carried on by regrets. Maybe in minds, too honed and sharpened for specific piercing, for a warrior’s vendetta incapable of being fully reached. For aspirations too lofty, too grand, too ignorant, of the specious interludes fallen amongst the dead. So he listened and listened and listened, the experiences of his own lives muddled in war, as if sometimes that was all he’d ever been made of, warping the land around him. For a few moments, he was quiet, silent, like a grave, like a tomb, before tilting his head, becoming something more than a statue.  “Because survivors have the aftermath.” And even in his years of maintaining battlefield experiences, that was something he couldn’t teach. Not until the world had it for themselves. No glory. No banners raised. No mighty songs sung for the ones who came home. “We try to rationalize and understand.” By way of distraction, or so that his thoughts had more than voice, he began to contort the water, bit by bit, drop by drop, until portions of the puddle began to twirl and contort in amongst themselves. “We ask ourselves why our friends did not live. Or why we were not enough. If there was a different way. If things could have gone better.” And they always could have; because for some reason they believed no one would die, salvation would be restored, armistices would remain intact. But those lines were for the ignorant and innocent; fairy tales read to children so they could become emboldened things, instead of broken, embittered, rancorous edges. Then, for a recitation of views he’d had to pierce and puncture through his own skull. “And ultimately, it does not matter. Because we cannot go back.” Even now, in the bridges and backbones of his mistakes, he wished he could. The water in his depths, in his incantations, became an image of mountains, rather than monsters; beatific and peaked, grand and wondrous, and then his eyes finally settled back on her. They’d known LongNight was going to be a mess. That hadn’t been a surprise. It was just the reality of it sliding, grabbing, and not quite relinquishing. “You just move forward and attempt to be more the next time. Because we can learn.” master of nothing place; of recoil and grace

Elide

Deimos listens to her, and she is glad to be heard deeply when she is so often hesitant to speak on her own emotions. Even alone, they are hard to face. She would rather be like him as he is in this moment; a statue, grave and unmoved by the forces that bind so many others to their emotional whims. Perhaps she had still fallen to that weakness, in a way, all the while thinking she had been strong when really she was numb.

So when he speaks, and he speaks of surviving and being enough... and it strikes that chord within her, to hear such feelings finally put to words. She swallows, a needless mechanic for her and yet she does it anyway. Maybe out of habit, maybe because these things are simply hard to swallow.

'And ultimately, it does not matter. Because we cannot go back.'

She shifts where she stands, moved by the phrasing and not because she has never heard it, nor thought it; not because she doesn't know it. But, somehow, here and now, it's moving all the same. She follows his gaze down to the water, finding where he's sequestered it into something more than a still puddle lying on the icy ground. For several long moments, she lets the silence draw out between them - and yet she doesn't feel as if it's ill-placed. A moment of silence for all that's been lost, and for what they may lose in the dark, unknown future.

And when their eyes meet again, Elide steps toward him. "Deimos... do you remember being a child and thinking that nothing could stop you? Will you relive those days with me - just for a moment - before we must both move on?"

She then extends her slender hand with its fresher callouses, her palm facing the dark gray sky. There's a longing here, for days of old and of youthful innocence. A resilience could be seen in those times, in the wonder and ambition of children striving to always become more through their wildness and laughter. Picking themselves up out of the muck and bounding forth once more.

Should he take her hand, she will lead the way across only the largest pools of water gathered from the rain, where glacial mountains preside in the spirit of it and waterfalls cascade around them to encourage their energies.

never before had the song of war
been the song of hope ascending

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Perhaps he’d always put on such a grand veneer – that nothing, nothing, nothing touched, tainted, or tarnished him. Unmoved, unbothered, unattainable, unreachable, a threshold of naught more than moving parts made to maim, abolish, or incinerate. Except under the surface were all the fallen pieces: lost comrades, homes, loved ones, families broken apart and gone, things he couldn’t hold in his iron grasp no matter how hard he tried because sometimes even all the strength in the world couldn’t compare to loss. To pretend that naught shook him really should’ve only been mired and rooted for enemies, for adversaries, for the ones who didn’t matter at all. Instead, it’d become a crutch for anything and everything in his life, save for the ones who still encompassed him in their wake. His eyes didn’t go to her when she finally stood – stare fixated on the movement and blur of motion along the water, in his fine little sketches and details that would eventually be erased too. The Sword’s glance only peeled away, incantations ceased, when she stepped toward him, when her voice harpooned through the silence. Whatever he expected, it hadn’t been her inquiry – brows arching one after the other in a volley of confusion. “Oh? And how are we going to do that?” And he laughed then, shaking his head, breaking apart the residual, accompanying balance of sorrows, regrets, and the marks battle left behind. “I can assure you, I was an obnoxious child.” A wrinkle to his nose fettered within, but he took her hand anyway, let himself be led towards the pool. What a wonder, what a time, when boys could stretch their limbs across the vast, seemingly endless barrage of sand, yell at the gulls, and scream tyranny into the sea-salt air without a god damned care in the world. Before everything dissipated into darkness and stupid, stupid emboldened aspirations and dreams that never quite came true. Belial followed, insatiably curious – and the monolith stood before the wake, the arch to his brow remaining. Resisting the melancholy that seemed to yearn to settle in. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace

Elide

"You, obnoxious? I scarcely believe that," she teases, a unique tone rarely found in Elide's voice, "life has greatly humbled you, then, and it's time that you turn the tables." To make life tremble to hold them, to leave such an imprint that even death would be too afraid to take them. Let the world do as it does and change. But here, in this moment, they can pretend that it hasn't. Without guilt, without ghosts, and most importantly... without mercy.

Elide's grip around Demois' larger hand is tight and assuring, that this is the right thing to do. To set their inner children free, to be unscathed by time and war. Down upon the pools of rainwater they descend.

Her feet go first, but rather than simply run with him into the vast array of puddles, she suddenly releases his hand and leaps. Her coattails stream through the air and, for a second, she flies. Then, her boots land heavily in the depths of the water and a bombardment of icy-cold water washes over both Deimos and his companion.

"And that-" she announces triumphantly, rounding upon them "-is for earlier!"

never before had the song of war
been the song of hope ascending

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame He laughed once more, surprised to hear Elide’s teasing and mocking accord. But thereafter, her words were only encouragement – a strange inflection coming from her – touching over the greater, poignant parts of him; broadening over tired shoulders and a beleaguered, hanging head. Life had humbled him into something unworthy and undeserving, a fumbling failure in so many aspects, until somehow he’d wound and meandered here. Standing in a pool of water, grinning because there would be a time, a place, where he could find more than crumbling foundations again. “Oh? And what do you suggest I do?” Another warm round of laughter, where it pulsed and ricocheted off the Citadel wall, where it could echo instead of fade. Take, Rexanna had once told him in his dreams. It’s time to take. Except they ran then, straight into the puddles, and he wasn’t relinquished one bit. His eyes widened as she launched – as if mystified, perplexed, by the Elide underneath all the stoicism. Maybe that’s what everyone else did when he enacted the same mischievous mannerisms. But the Sword didn’t even bother to hide it, smiling and grinning all the while as the splashes recoiled straight upon him, cold and unabashed, streaking deliberately into his hair, down the back of his neck, and notched deep into furs. Belial might have made a mild screech at the antics, it was difficult to sparse through the vicious assaults, but the peryton responded in kind a moment later, little, jagged hooves volleying back into the center. And Deimos? Instead of posturing straight into his magic, which could’ve put on a wild, untamed display, the monolith instead jumped, and launched downward an instant later, rallying the cascade of water in all directions. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace

Elide

"Let go," Elide answers swiftly, glancing over her shoulder at him just as she releases his hand. Indeed, she launches.

It is mystifying, letting herself feel this way, so untethered and unbound to a thing such as gravity. It always kept her grounded, and she had thought it necessary to weave her way through the complicated webs of their lives.

Now, however, she isn't so sure of that. Belial's bleat of protest isn't lost on her keen ears and she offers him a wide, approving smile as he leaps after her. She had expected as much of the mischievous little Peryton, for him to take to the game like a moth to flame. Deimos? Well, she had thought he might need some more coaxing.

Her eyes widen as the monolithic man jumps, launches himself into the water. She can do naught but brace herself for the impact, raising her arms to try and protect her face from the splash. It goes in all directions, his weight sweeping the water across the ground - and there's no need for his water magic here.

Elide's clothes, at this point, are fully soaked. But it does little to dampen the smile on her face. "I won't be bested so easily!" She exclaims, her voice lifting too. As the water settles and recollects, she stamps her foot down right in the center. A stream of water shoots upward from the force, enough to strike Deimos across the front of his furs. Maybe even the face, too. She watches with a clever glint in her gaze for his retaliation.

never before had the song of war
been the song of hope ascending