wild and bereft

DEIMOS MASTER OF NOTHING PLACE Deimos preferred control: dominance, power, and sway over his choices, over his decisions, over moments in life he considered his own. Here though, the shape and mold of events were well-above his stature and figure, his thoughts and sentiments, and now all he could do was spin around and react to them. It was vexing and irritating, because both of them were lost in a sea of the unknown, struggling to stay afloat while the rest of the boats and ships moved on without them. All they had was discussion now, pondering if there was ever a means to an end, or if their strife, their ignorance, was a part of the plan, shove the rest of the abandoned, desolate creatures and cretins aside, make way for the enigmas to come passing through. The Naturals rioted and barricaded. The Outlanders hustled to the Spire. Rexanna and Deimos fit nowhere; understanding, managing to comprehend both sides, stuck deep in the pit of purgatory. It wasn’t a place he yearned to be. “Had it been discussed between everyone, they might have been more accepting.” The next log was placed with a heavier thud, a wave of vexation rumbling through his flesh and bones before he had any opportunity to counter its coil, then he grew quieter, grabbing hold of another log and shifting it to a proper place. If only everything else was so easy: strength and conviction, might and solidarity. Why couldn’t the Outlanders have waited? Why couldn’t they have all contemplated a plan – for everyone and everything? Would it have mattered, in the long run? He pressed his lips together and remembered the shrill voices, the twist and turn of apprehension smothering, pervading, the air. “I heard the fear in their voices too. The unknown could be terrifying.” None of them knew what was out there. He’d long since lost consternation or trepidation for himself; the battlefield plucked it straight out of his bones, heart, and soul, but others wouldn’t feel the same. While the barricade beckoned for those like himself to dissolve, to destroy, to ruin its walls and climb its fortifications, there were some who’d lived amidst the bubble all their lives. They hadn’t seen anything else. They hadn’t craved anything else. They hadn’t known anything else. Did the signs of ignorance scare them, that they’d be just as inept and ineffectual as the Outlanders? Or was it the paralyzing potential of everything else before them? They could’ve talked in circles for the rest of the day – but Rexanna had more intentions than the Reaper. She must’ve known, realized, he’d balk and bolt the moment she even mentioned the gods; a deep growl stirred itself in his lungs, distorted and disturbed any other nuance he could’ve embodied right then and there. His experiences with any deities hadn’t gone well. The warrior had never been overly pious in childhood or the growing years; and in the midst of crusades and campaigns the only thing he ever prayed to was his conviction and strength, his comrades, his allies, his friends in arms. Then they’d fallen – and there was no god amongst them, picking up the pieces, the rubble, the bones. It’d been him, burying them where they’d bled their last, not a single prayer lit by his lips; just sorrow and anguish. Thereafter, and after and after, when the rain had poured down and he’d knelt in front of that damned shrine uttering every oath and covenant, pledge and proclamation, a promise to do anything some ridiculous celestial being wanted - please just save her - he’d only been met with silence. They’d done nothing for her but let her suffer, let her wither, let her decay; a figure, a paragon, who’d done everything to follow their words, their liturgies, and they let her die. Leaving his decisions up to the gods? He’d rather crawl into his own damned crypt and wait divine retribution. Send him to hell: he’d already been there and thrived. But Rexanna’s hand was on his arm, and his instinct to run was never greater. Her smile only spoke volumes, she wasn’t about to relent, and him tugging away, pushing, shoving, escaping, meant she’d come to harm. Deimos would’ve remarked about injustice and unfairness if it didn’t sound so childish and petulant in his mind, but he didn’t want to play directly into the snares, into the traps, into the impending sense of naught. “There is no other way?” So he just stood there, perhaps a singular pleading look in his eyes, eager and ready to flee his way into the next kingdom. OF RECOIL AND GRACE

Rexanna <3