DEIMOS
There were times when that was all he’d ever amounted to be: a shield and a weapon, a barrage of power and demolition against adversaries and enemies, the taste of acrimony on his tongue and the contempt flowing through his veins. It’d could’ve been easy to sink into all of that again – to grow reticent and indifferent, to turn an apathetic gaze upon the world, to wield nothing more than armaments as words as they crashed and sang through the air. And now, after years of striving to change and alter, to have and hold, to snag and grasp something for himself, for others, the jagged pieces of primordial destruction recalled Reaper tendencies, hummed and haunted in interloping, serrated boundaries.
And he’d commit to it – as he always did.
Because his strides sinking into the Draig, alongside friends and demigods, would mean that others wouldn’t have to do the same. Would mean they’d have a chance against the Voice. Would mean more opportunities. More chances. Of either death or victory.
He’d never been one to wonder why he was sent to the battlefield. He didn’t care about fairness. Deimos knew who he was, inside and out, understood the nature of his being. Crusades and campaigns were the simpler proportions. All of this, with people caring, with vulnerability curling, with walls down, might’ve been harder to bear. His fingers contorted over hers, and with his free hand, a thumb aimed to brush away tears, gentle, sighing as the words pervaded. “I will always worry,” and he found half a smile, wayward and strained, along the corners of his mouth. All this pain and agony clustered together between the pair of them stifle, and he didn’t like it, tried to find a way to wade through the aches. “You do not have to take that on yourself either. Halo is strong. That is how everyone has survived for so long.” And gods, they wouldn’t let something like a war break them apart.
If they said it enough times, if they uttered those confidences, those reassurances –
Those last words punctured a bit more severely though, and his piercing eyes flickered back over her, brows furrowing, throat swallowing and catching down another range of emotions. Plenty had lost him before and not cared at all. He looked away briefly, to snag at something tangible, to ground himself in the wake of all these musterings, before the depths of his stare returned to the Evergreen, a long breath unfurling. For all those she’d seen simply wilt and perish before her. “You will not,” meant as a comfort, as calloused fingers slowly wound their way over more tears.
And he’d commit to it – as he always did.
Because his strides sinking into the Draig, alongside friends and demigods, would mean that others wouldn’t have to do the same. Would mean they’d have a chance against the Voice. Would mean more opportunities. More chances. Of either death or victory.
He’d never been one to wonder why he was sent to the battlefield. He didn’t care about fairness. Deimos knew who he was, inside and out, understood the nature of his being. Crusades and campaigns were the simpler proportions. All of this, with people caring, with vulnerability curling, with walls down, might’ve been harder to bear. His fingers contorted over hers, and with his free hand, a thumb aimed to brush away tears, gentle, sighing as the words pervaded. “I will always worry,” and he found half a smile, wayward and strained, along the corners of his mouth. All this pain and agony clustered together between the pair of them stifle, and he didn’t like it, tried to find a way to wade through the aches. “You do not have to take that on yourself either. Halo is strong. That is how everyone has survived for so long.” And gods, they wouldn’t let something like a war break them apart.
If they said it enough times, if they uttered those confidences, those reassurances –
Those last words punctured a bit more severely though, and his piercing eyes flickered back over her, brows furrowing, throat swallowing and catching down another range of emotions. Plenty had lost him before and not cared at all. He looked away briefly, to snag at something tangible, to ground himself in the wake of all these musterings, before the depths of his stare returned to the Evergreen, a long breath unfurling. For all those she’d seen simply wilt and perish before her. “You will not,” meant as a comfort, as calloused fingers slowly wound their way over more tears.
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
