Every raindrop is a needle, cold and sharp and biting. It’s some small blessing, as the pain keeps her conscious.
Unlike the pain in her side, which threatens to eclipse the senses and subject her to darkness. It’s bad. Would’ve been bad even if the Venatori hadn’t poisoned their blades, but they had, and with poison Athessa herself has used in the past.
In her delirium, she vows never to inflict this on anyone else, if she lives that long. From where she lays, pinned beneath the enemy’s dead weight and heavy armor, it looks like a pretty big if.
“Fuck,” is the first word she manages to croak out. The Venatori is impaled through their throat. Their blood dilutes in the rain that flows down the blade and over Athessa’s white-knuckle grip on her dagger. The poisoned blade—the sharp end of a halberd—is still stuck in her side, and it burns. She plants the heel of her free hand on the dead fanatic’s shoulder and tries to shove him off of her, but he’s too heavy and she’s quickly fading.
“Fuck...off...” She grinds it out between clenched teeth and shoves again. It’s no use, and she lets out a strangled cry of pain, the effort only exacerbating the wound in her side.
He forgets, at times, just how little she could be. It was one thing when she curled up against his side, her hands barely enough to curl around his wrist. It is another when he sees the weight of the brute crush her from where he is on the other side of the fight. Disappearing under the slide of armour and that is enough to tell him something is wrong - she is faster than that. She has always been faster than that.
That is the last thing he thinks, as it becomes clear. Something is wrong. The sword in his hand hacks through them. A direct line through the chaos of the fight. To hell with them. There will be nothing left of them before he is done. For her pain, least of all.
( But this - this most of all. )
The venatori that falls on her is lifted off with a grunt when the last of them are dead. His broad hands making short work of the body as he throws it. But for violence in him, his touch is unsure as he slides them under her head. Threading into her tangled curls as he lifts her head, up, to face him. The other wiping the blood and gore and tangled locks from her cheek.
"Athessa. Athessa look at me."
Like she had ever followed an order of his before in her life. Like that his giving an order might stave off death for even a moment longer.
Her dagger goes with the body of the Venatori when the corpse is flung off of her, which frees up her trembling, bloody hands to grasp at Deimos like a lifeline. But he spoke, didn't he, he told her to do something--
Fuck it's hard to keep her eyes open but she's trying, bleary through tears and sweat and rain and blood and delirium. His face is blurry, but she knows those horns, that gold glimmer from the adornments in his hair, the red painted on his skin, and she can feel how solid his arms are even if his touch is so gentle, unsure.
"Are you--hurt?" She grimaces, which should be a smile but she can't manage that as well as she'd like. "I think I might be."
Edited (she can't not make jokes is the thing) 2019-10-27 22:04 (UTC)
Sometimes you just want comfort and contact without the intensity or effort of sex.
Sometimes you wander aimlessly not knowing that's what you want until you see someone looking quite comfortable on a settee or chaise or couch or what-the-fuck-ever that piece of furniture is called, and then you're struck with the knowledge and inescapable yearning.
Which is how Athessa ends up approaching Deimos where he's reclining and, wordlessly, lays atop him with her cheek pressed to his chest.
He'd been quiet, for the time being in the only place that wasn't a miserable fit for him. The too-short beds, the chairs that looked like they would break, the tables that were always so low and gave him a crick in his neck as he tried to use their tiny writing tools.
But the library? They had those long window lounges. Where he could get on leg up, cram his back into the wall and do something like doze comfortably in the off-hours. Open one eye and grunt at anyone that got too close until he was done. It was a simple, easy exchange.
Until she goes and lays on him. Hears her footsteps with familiarity. Then she's there, on top of him. His eyes crack open with a grunt of irritation.
She's got her eyes closed, and sighs heavily before responding. The sound of his heartbeat and the rumble of his voice through his chest almost entirely what she needs. Almost.
"I don't want to fuck right now," her own voice, quiet and tired. She hasn't been sleeping much, for some reason she can't discern. She shifts slightly, getting comfortable and nuzzling more solidly into his warmth.
It’s long enough after Satinalia—after Nevarra City—that the Sten Who Likes Bread would be within his rights to feel forgotten. (Feeling forgotten would be doubly appropriate, actually, given that he was initially misplaced and left out.) But Bastien isn’t a forgetful person, only a busy one, so around the time he stops discovering corpse dust and dirt in places he would prefer neither to be, he shows up at the door to whatever room the giant has been squeezing himself into.
His knock on the door is shave and a haircut, out of habit. If he has to knock twice, he’ll use a different riff. He has an endless supply.
He doesn't care - he absolutely doesn't care that he didn't get his gift that Athessa said he would get if he did this, right the very second he wrote his name down. That's why he's absolutely not sulking every time he comes back to his room that there isn't something there. Because he is a terrifying soldier and he does not sulk.
( He absolutely, every night, tugs at his things, and when he does not find a gift, proceeds to pout for another hour, but since no one sees it, no one can ever guilt him over it. )
The giant at present has taken over one room that is much too small for him, but they all were, but he has managed to take an extra couple of beds so that even if he can't sleep perfectly, he can sleep diagonally, and that is close enough. Which is where he was, on his off-hours, of which he feels he has too much, but that is simply because they give him enough to sleep at all, staring up at the bed, watching the ceiling with the patience of someone who has never had a hobby in his life and has gotten used to looking at nothing.
Though with something to do, he gets up, yanks open the door, and looks down at whoever is in front of him. "What?"
“Hello,” Bastien answers—sort of, obviously it isn’t a real answer—with quiet cheer, from well over a below his line of sight.
His accent is Orlesian; so is his mustache, currently fashionable among the masses in Val Royeaux, and the cut of his clothing, and his overall affect. There is nothing soldierly about him. He looks like he belongs at a desk, or behind a cart selling books. But on the other hand, there’s no shying backwards away from the Qunari, and any mild gawking is of the same friendly, impressed quality that might be directed toward a friend’s expensive new hat.
“I am Bastien, and—Maker, you are tall. I hope that is a compliment.”
It isn't the first time she's been in his bed come morning, but it's still a new enough experience that it isn't expected that she'll be there when the sun rises.
Today, the light spills in through the window, cutting the chill in the air only where it touches. It extends its reach across the floor and across first Deimos' chest, then Athessa's back. She has an arm draped over him, bent at the elbow as if she fell asleep cupping his cheek, and her face is a hair's breadth from being smushed against his neck. Close enough for her breath and lips to brush against his skin.
She doesn't wake, but nuzzles closer to him and breathes a soft sigh against him.
Morning's like this are not a luxury Chrysis had ever bestowed upon him. Not even when he had proven his worth, would she ever let him soften. Here he is, every night, sleeping in a warm bed, even if it is too short, with a warm and willing woman that didn't complain that came when he said her name, that provided a perfect amount of heat for these cooler nights than where he came from, in lands far removed from these.
But it was all part of being here, letting them get complacent about him. She'd insist it might have something about letting himself be, but in the end, he assured himself, it was part of a plan Chrysis had advised for him.
So he doesn't lift an inch, when he feels her stir in her sleep. Not quite coming awake himself. Only to roll further onto her side, and draw her with him. Pulling her into his chest with an arm around her waist.
As for Athessa, sharing his bed was never the plan by any stretch of the imagination. Sure, they'd fuck and sometimes that might involve the bed, but the way it always is and always was had her slinking off to her own quarters after. It was like that in Rivain, and it's been like that with every person she's slept with other than him, besides Derrica.
So why is she like this with him? It's not something she knows or cares to examine, really. It's just something she inexplicably needs.
When he pulls her closer, she wakes just enough to hum sleepily, and arrange her arms so they don't get pinned between his chest and hers. Well, one ends up pinned regardless.
Neither he nor Eshal had come back from Nevarra, and while there was speculation drifting through the Gallows, nobody really knew if they were dead or alive.
But it's clear enough that Deimos survived when his massive self casts a shadow over the docks.
From some ways off, Athessa spots him and before she can think to be cool or dial back her delight at seeing him, she's running at him. Jumps when she's but a few feet away, and throws her arms over his shoulders to curl behind his head.
And there she hangs, kissing him and smiling against his mouth.
Has anyone in his entire life ever been this happy to see him?
The fact that he barely even processes that as a question probably says the most, and rather tenses up immediately when there is a ball of clothes and limbs and that ridiculous curling hair flying at him.
But he catches up, as she lands, enough not to flip her over his shoulder in simple reaction. Merciful that it came from the front, gave him time to react. His arms wrapping around her waist so she didn't choke him, he'd insist. Holding her weight as she kisses him, and he - does not quite kiss back. Just makes a noise that might be pleased, back against her lips.
"Well I'm glad you're glad," she chuckles, in part because what she said was just...so dumb. It's important to be able to laugh at yourself. The other part of why she chuckles is more along the lines of covering the tiniest sliver of disappointment that he didn't quite kiss her back.
But she can agonize over that later. For now, she gives him one more quick smooch and smiles cutely at him.
It's strange, to wake up early. Strange to wake up at all, when she can still feel the presence of her would-be executioner lurking always just out of sight. Stranger still, however, is waking up in this bed, beside this man, who she thought she'd never see again.
No, that was a different man. She was right to think they'd never again meet. This isn't Deimos, but Alexios.
Alexios. Alexios. She wakes up early, curled up against him, his arms around her, his face buried in her hair or sometimes pressed against her chest. He still holds on as tightly as Deimos. She still touches him as softly. Alexios.
He looks peaceful in the cool light of early morning, when her eyes open and she can't make herself go back to sleep. Everything seems too clear, too sharply focused, and while it's overwhelming during the day, in the stillness before everyone wakes, it's perfect for memorizing his face.
His arms are not around her this morning. He's sleeping on his back. Chest rises and falls, deep steady breaths. She wonders if the dark rings under her own eyes will fade, like his have. His face has filled out some, too, no longer hollowed out by fear and hatred and spite and abuse. Alexios. She reaches slowly, grazing her fingers over his features with a feather-light touch. Tracing the shapes, the lines, feeling the scruff on his jaw and where it dissipates on his neck.
"Alexios," Thea whispers, soft enough that it may as well have just been in her own head. This happened before, too. Thoughts would cross the line between brain and mouth and make themselves manifest, whether she bade them to or not. Alexios is not Deimos. Is she no longer Thea? She's not sure she knows who Thea was, before this.
He has left Deimos behind, after so many years, he ... unbecomes. He takes new form, this being who does not know Hades as intimately as a brother. He has a Mother now, who would fight Zeus herself for him, he has a sister who has done near that to prove to him that there is more than what he had been led to believe. Not just from the world but from himself.
But part of him has been too well trained to not open his eyes when the touch first brushes him. His eyes sliding open in the pre-dawn light. The grey wash of the Laconia mornings. He does not move, does not startle. He has come back to her every night, though his Father and his Brother keep him busy during the day so he does not twist himself in knots worrying over her.
Here, however - is where his thoughts return, when the time stills between each bout or task. Her little body seemed carved of sand, and as liable to crumble and wash away. Myrine had told him only time would pass this haze, and he knew that well. He had many nights wearing off the cult's drugs. She would find it just as exhausting and difficult to pass, even she was so little - so frail.
"Thea." He calls to her, as she would call him. Lifting his fingers up to touch her hand as she touches him.
But for all that has changed, all that is and is not, all that has passed between them: his fingers still have a care for her. That touches her knuckles as reverently as a statue of Artemis herself.
"Shhh," she presses her fingers to his lips, as if he would have much else to say. Maybe Alexios talks more than Deimos, but she doubts it. She curls tighter to his side and threads her fingers through his and drawing his hand closer that she might kiss it. "We are still sleeping."
She sighs, knowing that they're not likely to fall back asleep, but contented all the same. He's warm, the air cool, their bed comfortable. Even now, he smells of woodsmoke and war, but also of love and home and him.
"You smell nice," she whispers, closing her eyes.
"We're still sleeping."
Edited (changed my miiiinnnnddddd) 2020-05-06 21:13 (UTC)
For once, Athessa knows it's a dream well before the bitter end, but for a moment, standing in a shifting landscape with the acrid scent of blood and gaatlok and leather and steel clouding her senses, she doesn't know that it isn't her that's dreaming.
A primal scream pierces through the miasma and she whirls around to look for the source, but what was a battlefield morphs before her eyes, the bodies and spears and smoke elongating into trees, and the echoes of the scream begin to sound like a roar.
A lioness leaps and Athessa dodges aside, watching as the beast tears into a small, horned child. Before the scene can shift again, she understands.
"Deimos!" She calls out his name, but the dream swallows it, muffling it and refusing to let it project. Unacceptable. One foot after the other, Athessa starts to run, passing through vignette after vignette, and leaving little empty footprints in her wake. She tries again: "Deimos!"
The world twists around them. Flashing images that hold only as still as river water. Churning, pushing, driving. His mind as it presents itself without a linear path.
He can't hear her. He can't hear anything. The order comes, clear and clariant in his mind: Strike! And he does. Snapping with his wrist to drive the spear in his hand forward. Pause, yank. The spear comes away bloody.
Strike! Comes the voice again. Sharper, he strikes again. The spear, once more, comes away bloody, and the boy across from him crumples, holding his stomach, the blood seeping between his fingers. He can't be past ten years of age, and suddenly Deimos is no older.
Strike! The spear goes through his throat. Clean through.
He can't hear anything through the silence of that wet gurgle of a throat bubbling with the last of it's life.
She's waiting in his room like she often is, at this point, but it's clear she's not waiting for the usual reasons. For one, she's fully clothed, and though she's sitting on the bed, she isn't lounging seductively or otherwise fully comfortable. She's sitting up, legs crossed, and fiddling with her crystal that she's turned off.
Waking up from a PTSD fueled nightmare isn't a novel experience for Athessa, but waking up from someone else's sure is. When her eyes snap open and none of her desperate breaths seem to ferry enough air into her lungs, the emotion of that turmoil lays heavy over her like a stone slab.
But knowing that Deimos must be feeling this weight too, the panic and the rage and sadness, propels her out of bed and to his room. There's no point in knocking, so she lets herself in and quietly closes the door behind her, padding silently across the room to where he lay.
"Deimos," she whispers, cupping his face in her delicate little hands.
Delicate or not, little or not, these hands will protect him.
Awake or asleep, the reaction the second her hands touch him is the same. He snatches her by the throat and throws her body into the bed in a half-mad reaction driven fever-rage. Her body down into the pillows, pinning her under his weight. The other hand to her wrist to pin both her hands above her head. his hips leaning heavily on hers. Held, unmoving and heavy. Not an embrace but a threat.
"What are you doing here?"
It's Qunlat, not trade, half sunk, there is no space for anything else in his churning mind.
She doesn't hear about it from him. No, she hears the happy news of Devigny’s death--attributed to a burglary gone wrong--from eavesdropping on the City Guard.
The walk to the docks is a quick one, which should highlight just how short a process of elimination she goes through before narrowing it down to one person who very probably did it.
Deimos' patrol is ending as she arrives, and though her feelings on the matters of Devigny, his death, and who by rights should have been the one to kill him are complex, she still smiles when she sees the imposing horned figure.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
HERE'S YOUR PRIZE FOR MAKING THE INBOX
Unlike the pain in her side, which threatens to eclipse the senses and subject her to darkness. It’s bad. Would’ve been bad even if the Venatori hadn’t poisoned their blades, but they had, and with poison Athessa herself has used in the past.
In her delirium, she vows never to inflict this on anyone else, if she lives that long. From where she lays, pinned beneath the enemy’s dead weight and heavy armor, it looks like a pretty big if.
“Fuck,” is the first word she manages to croak out. The Venatori is impaled through their throat. Their blood dilutes in the rain that flows down the blade and over Athessa’s white-knuckle grip on her dagger. The poisoned blade—the sharp end of a halberd—is still stuck in her side, and it burns. She plants the heel of her free hand on the dead fanatic’s shoulder and tries to shove him off of her, but he’s too heavy and she’s quickly fading.
“Fuck...off...” She grinds it out between clenched teeth and shoves again. It’s no use, and she lets out a strangled cry of pain, the effort only exacerbating the wound in her side.
UHM EXCUSE
That is the last thing he thinks, as it becomes clear. Something is wrong. The sword in his hand hacks through them. A direct line through the chaos of the fight. To hell with them. There will be nothing left of them before he is done. For her pain, least of all.
( But this - this most of all. )
The venatori that falls on her is lifted off with a grunt when the last of them are dead. His broad hands making short work of the body as he throws it. But for violence in him, his touch is unsure as he slides them under her head. Threading into her tangled curls as he lifts her head, up, to face him. The other wiping the blood and gore and tangled locks from her cheek.
"Athessa. Athessa look at me."
Like she had ever followed an order of his before in her life. Like that his giving an order might stave off death for even a moment longer.
KEHEHEH
Fuck it's hard to keep her eyes open but she's trying, bleary through tears and sweat and rain and blood and delirium. His face is blurry, but she knows those horns, that gold glimmer from the adornments in his hair, the red painted on his skin, and she can feel how solid his arms are even if his touch is so gentle, unsure.
"Are you--hurt?" She grimaces, which should be a smile but she can't manage that as well as she'd like. "I think I might be."
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feel free to time skip to camp bc she'll wake up when the wound is cauterized :>
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Sometimes you wander aimlessly not knowing that's what you want until you see someone looking quite comfortable on a settee or chaise or couch or what-the-fuck-ever that piece of furniture is called, and then you're struck with the knowledge and inescapable yearning.
Which is how Athessa ends up approaching Deimos where he's reclining and, wordlessly, lays atop him with her cheek pressed to his chest.
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He'd been quiet, for the time being in the only place that wasn't a miserable fit for him. The too-short beds, the chairs that looked like they would break, the tables that were always so low and gave him a crick in his neck as he tried to use their tiny writing tools.
But the library? They had those long window lounges. Where he could get on leg up, cram his back into the wall and do something like doze comfortably in the off-hours. Open one eye and grunt at anyone that got too close until he was done. It was a simple, easy exchange.
Until she goes and lays on him. Hears her footsteps with familiarity. Then she's there, on top of him. His eyes crack open with a grunt of irritation.
"We can't fuck here."
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"I don't want to fuck right now," her own voice, quiet and tired. She hasn't been sleeping much, for some reason she can't discern. She shifts slightly, getting comfortable and nuzzling more solidly into his warmth.
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action.
His knock on the door is shave and a haircut, out of habit. If he has to knock twice, he’ll use a different riff. He has an endless supply.
Re: action.
( He absolutely, every night, tugs at his things, and when he does not find a gift, proceeds to pout for another hour, but since no one sees it, no one can ever guilt him over it. )
The giant at present has taken over one room that is much too small for him, but they all were, but he has managed to take an extra couple of beds so that even if he can't sleep perfectly, he can sleep diagonally, and that is close enough. Which is where he was, on his off-hours, of which he feels he has too much, but that is simply because they give him enough to sleep at all, staring up at the bed, watching the ceiling with the patience of someone who has never had a hobby in his life and has gotten used to looking at nothing.
Though with something to do, he gets up, yanks open the door, and looks down at whoever is in front of him. "What?"
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His accent is Orlesian; so is his mustache, currently fashionable among the masses in Val Royeaux, and the cut of his clothing, and his overall affect. There is nothing soldierly about him. He looks like he belongs at a desk, or behind a cart selling books. But on the other hand, there’s no shying backwards away from the Qunari, and any mild gawking is of the same friendly, impressed quality that might be directed toward a friend’s expensive new hat.
“I am Bastien, and—Maker, you are tall. I hope that is a compliment.”
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aaaaand cute stuff ACTION
Today, the light spills in through the window, cutting the chill in the air only where it touches. It extends its reach across the floor and across first Deimos' chest, then Athessa's back. She has an arm draped over him, bent at the elbow as if she fell asleep cupping his cheek, and her face is a hair's breadth from being smushed against his neck. Close enough for her breath and lips to brush against his skin.
She doesn't wake, but nuzzles closer to him and breathes a soft sigh against him.
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But it was all part of being here, letting them get complacent about him. She'd insist it might have something about letting himself be, but in the end, he assured himself, it was part of a plan Chrysis had advised for him.
So he doesn't lift an inch, when he feels her stir in her sleep. Not quite coming awake himself. Only to roll further onto her side, and draw her with him. Pulling her into his chest with an arm around her waist.
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So why is she like this with him? It's not something she knows or cares to examine, really. It's just something she inexplicably needs.
When he pulls her closer, she wakes just enough to hum sleepily, and arrange her arms so they don't get pinned between his chest and hers. Well, one ends up pinned regardless.
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Slaps nsfw on this bc they trash
the most NSFW couple ever tbh
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But it's clear enough that Deimos survived when his massive self casts a shadow over the docks.
From some ways off, Athessa spots him and before she can think to be cool or dial back her delight at seeing him, she's running at him. Jumps when she's but a few feet away, and throws her arms over his shoulders to curl behind his head.
And there she hangs, kissing him and smiling against his mouth.
"Glad you're not dead."
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The fact that he barely even processes that as a question probably says the most, and rather tenses up immediately when there is a ball of clothes and limbs and that ridiculous curling hair flying at him.
But he catches up, as she lands, enough not to flip her over his shoulder in simple reaction. Merciful that it came from the front, gave him time to react. His arms wrapping around her waist so she didn't choke him, he'd insist. Holding her weight as she kisses him, and he - does not quite kiss back. Just makes a noise that might be pleased, back against her lips.
"Glad I'm not either."
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But she can agonize over that later. For now, she gives him one more quick smooch and smiles cutely at him.
"You can put me down now."
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hey guess what
It's strange, to wake up early. Strange to wake up at all, when she can still feel the presence of her would-be executioner lurking always just out of sight. Stranger still, however, is waking up in this bed, beside this man, who she thought she'd never see again.
No, that was a different man. She was right to think they'd never again meet. This isn't Deimos, but Alexios.
Alexios. Alexios. She wakes up early, curled up against him, his arms around her, his face buried in her hair or sometimes pressed against her chest. He still holds on as tightly as Deimos. She still touches him as softly. Alexios.
He looks peaceful in the cool light of early morning, when her eyes open and she can't make herself go back to sleep. Everything seems too clear, too sharply focused, and while it's overwhelming during the day, in the stillness before everyone wakes, it's perfect for memorizing his face.
His arms are not around her this morning. He's sleeping on his back. Chest rises and falls, deep steady breaths. She wonders if the dark rings under her own eyes will fade, like his have. His face has filled out some, too, no longer hollowed out by fear and hatred and spite and abuse. Alexios. She reaches slowly, grazing her fingers over his features with a feather-light touch. Tracing the shapes, the lines, feeling the scruff on his jaw and where it dissipates on his neck.
"Alexios," Thea whispers, soft enough that it may as well have just been in her own head. This happened before, too. Thoughts would cross the line between brain and mouth and make themselves manifest, whether she bade them to or not. Alexios is not Deimos. Is she no longer Thea? She's not sure she knows who Thea was, before this.
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But part of him has been too well trained to not open his eyes when the touch first brushes him. His eyes sliding open in the pre-dawn light. The grey wash of the Laconia mornings. He does not move, does not startle. He has come back to her every night, though his Father and his Brother keep him busy during the day so he does not twist himself in knots worrying over her.
Here, however - is where his thoughts return, when the time stills between each bout or task. Her little body seemed carved of sand, and as liable to crumble and wash away. Myrine had told him only time would pass this haze, and he knew that well. He had many nights wearing off the cult's drugs. She would find it just as exhausting and difficult to pass, even she was so little - so frail.
"Thea." He calls to her, as she would call him. Lifting his fingers up to touch her hand as she touches him.
But for all that has changed, all that is and is not, all that has passed between them: his fingers still have a care for her. That touches her knuckles as reverently as a statue of Artemis herself.
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She sighs, knowing that they're not likely to fall back asleep, but contented all the same. He's warm, the air cool, their bed comfortable. Even now, he smells of woodsmoke and war, but also of love and home and him.
"You smell nice," she whispers, closing her eyes.
"We're still sleeping."
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PTSD DREAM SHARE
A primal scream pierces through the miasma and she whirls around to look for the source, but what was a battlefield morphs before her eyes, the bodies and spears and smoke elongating into trees, and the echoes of the scream begin to sound like a roar.
A lioness leaps and Athessa dodges aside, watching as the beast tears into a small, horned child. Before the scene can shift again, she understands.
"Deimos!" She calls out his name, but the dream swallows it, muffling it and refusing to let it project. Unacceptable. One foot after the other, Athessa starts to run, passing through vignette after vignette, and leaving little empty footprints in her wake. She tries again: "Deimos!"
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He can't hear her. He can't hear anything. The order comes, clear and clariant in his mind: Strike! And he does. Snapping with his wrist to drive the spear in his hand forward. Pause, yank. The spear comes away bloody.
Strike! Comes the voice again. Sharper, he strikes again. The spear, once more, comes away bloody, and the boy across from him crumples, holding his stomach, the blood seeping between his fingers. He can't be past ten years of age, and suddenly Deimos is no older.
Strike! The spear goes through his throat. Clean through.
He can't hear anything through the silence of that wet gurgle of a throat bubbling with the last of it's life.
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action! societal rules and hot or not lists
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"Get out."
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But knowing that Deimos must be feeling this weight too, the panic and the rage and sadness, propels her out of bed and to his room. There's no point in knocking, so she lets herself in and quietly closes the door behind her, padding silently across the room to where he lay.
"Deimos," she whispers, cupping his face in her delicate little hands.
Delicate or not, little or not, these hands will protect him.
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"What are you doing here?"
It's Qunlat, not trade, half sunk, there is no space for anything else in his churning mind.
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after deimos killed devigny
The walk to the docks is a quick one, which should highlight just how short a process of elimination she goes through before narrowing it down to one person who very probably did it.
Deimos' patrol is ending as she arrives, and though her feelings on the matters of Devigny, his death, and who by rights should have been the one to kill him are complex, she still smiles when she sees the imposing horned figure.