light the fuse

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame The Reaper had always been an apt listener, a careful observer, doused with quiet, meticulous pursuits. The exchange between Maea and Amalia was an intriguing one, and were he not burdened and calculating other measures (like the subject matter of the barrier), he might’ve noted it more cautiously, framed it as more than idle curiosity. For now, he struggled not to roll his eyes at the they answered my prayer connotations – flicking his gaze away to travel on the books, on the shelving, on the crackling, roaring fire, anything else but the fury suddenly brewing in his chest. How many times had he listened to the prayers of his comrades, of his fellows, of his brothers in arms on the battlefield? How many times had they called to their gods, begging for forgiveness, pleading for something more than a slow death, for an end to their suffering? How many times had he buried them when they were gone, still without their deities and idols? How many times had they been left in silence? How many times had he tried and kneeled in the damned dirt, before giving up entirely? A chill radiated through his spine, a quick shudder along his shoulders, and he ground his teeth, clenched his jaw, and churned his thoughts to better things before the urge to stomp out maneuvered his presence. Amalia was far more gracious about it; and he took the cue, his features back into their calm, nonchalant veneer, without the spread and space of derision, defiance, clawing along his brows. He attended and concentrated on the theme, taking in the names and qualities of the gods who’d created, who’d attempted balance, who’d somehow lost that ability as Ascendeds spread their nuances and nooses. More inquiries burst through his mind at the intonations: because why did they allow the Voice to live then, if they felt threatened by the growing existence of altered beings? Why not shatter them apart? Or was it beyond their scope, their designs, their molten leisure? Deimos nodded, affirming understanding and comprehension, but didn’t let the inquiries adhere to his mouth and spew across his tongue; the inclusion of Safrin’s library, maps, and books a notion he hadn’t thought of. The scholarly, inquisitive sanctions of his mind buzzed and hummed, further tempted by information instead of constant vigilance or violence. He’d rather not continue to be stranded in the great ether of ineptitude, ignorance, and the unknown, become partially aware of what was untangling, unfurling, around them. The Reaper’s stoic gaze riveted slightly upon Rexanna, a seditious luster to their countenance, daring, an emboldened provocation, the old blending with the new, before he twisted back to Amalia. His words centered on gratitude and acknowledgment, a bend in appreciation, and his disposition, inward and drawn, was an avaricious, covetous plunge into the fathoms, the depths. “I would be willing.” master of nothing place; of recoil and grace