[seasonal event] wasted faith

Deimos the Reaper master of nothing place, of recoil and grace His words had weight and his actions had merit: he’d built entire lifetimes around those parameters, days spent unraveling, unfurling, and then building up his walls and fortresses, so nothing else hurt, so nothing else seared, so nothing else carved him out on the perils of anguish. Nonchalance, apathy, and complete, utter disregard for the individuals around him had been so much easier, cold and chilling, insouciant and unbending, a literal mountain bearing down against the weight of the world. But little by little, these people, this world, surrounding, pervading, had etched and sketched their way into his flesh, into his ramparts, into his palisades. They’d been little fissures and lines initially, barely worth his notice, until acceptance and tolerance harpooned and he was far gone and lost, adrift in the murky abyss, in the shuffling unknown – Helovia and Isilme had adhered to his impassivity, to his rage, to his need for vehemence and violence. Caido did none of these things. They curled and coiled their way into his mind, into his chest, into his infernal, rapacious, ravenous claws, until he was accustomed to friends, to loved ones, to family, and the overbearing weight that came with relationships, foundations, and comrades. Adam wasn’t even close to these notions. While Deimos returned to his brooding, brewing silence, such a customary expression of his existence that he thought nothing of it, Zuriel amused herself by getting pats, muzzle pushing forward into the other man’s hand, pondering how far she could prod, nudge, and irritate; her own form of vengeance. The Sword didn’t expect anything else from either – the thought of being left alone to sulk and wallow in agonies, anguishes, and stupid baskets that wouldn’t amount of anything – only lifting his eyes again when Adam’s sigh flickered into the boundaries, and then a torrent of words. His brows lifted, bewilderment and surprise notching their way on his features before dissipating altogether, as if he hadn’t meant to register the notion on his face. He’d presumed Adam would simply leave, or continue to irritate him until he finally snapped. Some sense of self-awareness or preservation might’ve tended to the pinnacles of honesty, leaving Deimos to tilt his head in consideration, in contemplation. The General joked with friends, occasionally – though it was never his strongest suit. More inside tactics than outright upheavals. More deviations and goading than merciless cuts into one’s character. Adam had annoyed him from the moment they’d been formally introduced; too much jester, too many unnecessary comments, too many slashing jibes at Amalia. Perhaps it had come from a place of custom, of his rites and rituals, of how he conformed to the world – but Amalia hadn’t deserved the barbs or sneers. And now he was…trying? The flicker of confusion mounted and tore into his machinations, and he could almost hear Zuriel sigh. You can make an effort too. Out of spite, he nearly refused. The Reaper would’ve spurned, declined, and rejected. In turn, the Reaper lost and lost and lost everything. The Sword still had opportunities. Still had Amalia, despite the world attempting to uproot that too. So, the slightest, the smallest of smirks curled its way to the corner of his mouth, goaded by the challenge, the intricate sway of his basket against Adam’s. “Try it.” On the upheaval, the gilded glow pulsed all the more, scattered touches and fringes of snowflakes, of mountainous summits, of columns of glaciers making up the handles. He wouldn’t begrudge him things like favorite food, colors, or something ridiculous. “I was a soldier.” Perhaps the most obvious, as if to taunt in return. Then a General, a King, didn’t make it into the fold. Quieter while he worked, as if unraveling even the most basic of revelations required concentration. “I was born by the ocean.”

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