Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
He laughed, a deep rumbling thing to escape from his chest, at the logistical and logical way they’d immediately presided. He was half-tempted to wonder and meander what they would do if they angled and anchored to the emotional pieces; but analytical and practical to a fault, they’d begin with settings. “If not in Halo, where were you thinking?” The Sword had presumed the winter landscape, the wide-open tundra, and the lingering presses of the Sea of Glass, lifting their heads to the wind, to the world they both cherished, preserved, and safeguarded. Not for tradition’s sake, but because of what they wanted and craved. Difficult to do, perhaps, given who they were.
Scrawling Halo in his usual concise and precise handwriting, his head tilted vaguely, enticed to tease in some manner too, gave a vague and wry grin thereafter. “I think the size of it matters as well. And who we want to invite. All of that could matter in location.” Something small and intimate, private and personal? Or a massive gathering, with unfurling space? If Kiada were to come, there’d need to be some level of accommodation made, besides the jacket, and Deimos wasn’t certain about Evie’s considerations with Hadama and his restrictions.
