Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
Occupied by food, inquiry, and company, the restlessness didn’t scald at his skin or crawl along his spine. The only movements were the occasional dip of his spoon, or idly tapping it against his mouth in moments of thought, permitting the stillness and peace to reside and resume, rather than tear it apart. Tranquility, even after the fringes of mischief, rarely existed in his life, so he took it with stoic breaths just as readily as he would bedlam and nefariousness; interlocking rhythms of sanctity for a man who’d sometimes only known bloodshed and survival. “Ten?” He wrinkled his nose though, because even that sounded like a dismal number, and based on the way they were consuming the remaining dough, there wouldn’t be much left for a second batch. He pictured a little bag dropped off on a table and then leaving altogether, notions of the festival itself still granting residual misgivings.
The General listened to her answer instead of perusing further, contemplating pockets of orange along skylines, like fire and brimstone, like edges of cinders or fading embers. And even though she hadn’t asked, he gave his too, gaze flickering down to the floor for a moment, brow furrowed in thought. “Mine is blue.” Like the rippling ocean tide, the trickling of raindrops, the icy proportions of distant mountains, a lake that never froze in the middle of a valley. “And white.” Snow upon rime and unfurling mist, the outcry of gulls against a constant moon. “Favorite food?”
