Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
Something about hearing his own words lodged against him caused a snort to billow through lungs and chest, effectively ending the notions there. Their lives had been so precariously altered from those earlier points anyway – broadened and branched out as soon as the barrier fell – that Natural hardly seemed to signify from land to land. He allowed her his silence, and subtle eyeroll, before biting down on the concoction – pitying the notions of a book shop hastening for replacements for imagined antics. The Sword expected the other semblances of creation to end there – but either he was convincing, reassuring, enough that it wasn’t a bother (because that was the truth) or the longing had been embedded, lodged, somewhere in there from times long past. Twisting back so that he faced the counter rather than leaning on it, eye to eye with her for a moment, he nodded, certain and sure, steady and stalwart as always. “Yes.” Not asking for an explanation, for the measures of why she’d want to see them manifested from nothing, he merely let it sink and simmer. Another breath, cookie polished and finished off, he dusted his palms free of sugary debris, piercing gaze flicking back to hers. “What colors would you like?”
