DEIMOS
ache first, but then let the cuts close
spit out the blood
spit out the blood
If he was being honest, most of the cookies probably wouldn’t make it past the dough stage, but he had no intention of giving that away. “I suppose,” with a sigh indicating he was making a massive sacrifice. If they ended up with too many, he could hand them out to fellow soldiers anyway. They’d likely take to that more readily than the latest barked order.
Meant to be a self-deprecation, he wasn’t sure what to do with the honesty – letting it dissipate in the angles of his snort and subsequent grin. In accord and silence, he plucked the now-ripened apple off the branch, tossing it her way, before starting on another one for himself.
There were more curiosities intermingled there anyway, tilting his head to listen as she began detailing some orchestrated plot. He laughed again, not giving chase to that rampant mischief, mostly because he didn’t relish seeing anyone, save for his adversaries, suffering, even under the guise of a crown. “That is a bit diabolical. What if they trace it back to you?” Eyes locked back upon the fruit, watching the process again, he snagged this one as well, sank his teeth in with a crunch. Content and musing, he swallowed the piece down before responding, the singular air of mischief remaining. “Or you could just give those particular ones to people you do not like.” Little bit of spite and pettiness to inspire business ventures.
Then he listened – gaze going from the apple and back to her. Deimos didn’t ask why, and probably knew better. The reasons could’ve been the same as his own; feeling abandoned, forsaken, dissipated, gone from the notions of what had given them understanding, safety, and serenity. No need to relive those aspects; the where was easier, supplemental, to a story she’d only briefly conveyed. King’s End seemed to take all sorts on exile, half a smile indenting along his mouth at the thought. And she’d survived, as she so often had. “Supposedly there are plans to make a neutral area there. For the war.”
Meant to be a self-deprecation, he wasn’t sure what to do with the honesty – letting it dissipate in the angles of his snort and subsequent grin. In accord and silence, he plucked the now-ripened apple off the branch, tossing it her way, before starting on another one for himself.
There were more curiosities intermingled there anyway, tilting his head to listen as she began detailing some orchestrated plot. He laughed again, not giving chase to that rampant mischief, mostly because he didn’t relish seeing anyone, save for his adversaries, suffering, even under the guise of a crown. “That is a bit diabolical. What if they trace it back to you?” Eyes locked back upon the fruit, watching the process again, he snagged this one as well, sank his teeth in with a crunch. Content and musing, he swallowed the piece down before responding, the singular air of mischief remaining. “Or you could just give those particular ones to people you do not like.” Little bit of spite and pettiness to inspire business ventures.
Then he listened – gaze going from the apple and back to her. Deimos didn’t ask why, and probably knew better. The reasons could’ve been the same as his own; feeling abandoned, forsaken, dissipated, gone from the notions of what had given them understanding, safety, and serenity. No need to relive those aspects; the where was easier, supplemental, to a story she’d only briefly conveyed. King’s End seemed to take all sorts on exile, half a smile indenting along his mouth at the thought. And she’d survived, as she so often had. “Supposedly there are plans to make a neutral area there. For the war.”
watch your body pull itself back together
then let your soul do the same
then let your soul do the same
