DEIMOS
ache first, but then let the cuts close
spit out the blood
spit out the blood
The Sword was in the midst of another learning curve.
It was one he’d likely known since childhood, but hadn’t been forced to revisit or endure its stern brows for some time. Not when he’d been immersed in the schism of other poor, poor choices. Or lingering amongst the clockwork bindings of cold, glacial calculations. These wounds struck and stuck harder now, because he’d tried so desperately to be more than the fool.
Instead, he’d blended straight into his rage, and paid the price. Had seen it, had expected it, had read the writing on the wall, but it didn’t mean the nuances still didn’t ache, still didn’t hurt, still didn’t maim and rip and –
He packed up portions of the front parlor and left other measures. He packed up his room into the bags he had; at the very least he’d remained Spartan in furnishings and there wasn’t much to pick after. Not like before. He tried to pack up the broken samplings of his heart and his lungs and his soul, but maybe they were too mangled now to bother with.
Then he and his companions marched out of the barracks, set to return as a soldier and nothing more when the monolith wasn’t reeling; a pat on the neck for Zuriel, intertwining his fingers in her long mane. Pretending not to use it as a crutch. Pretending he wasn’t sending a thousand apologies to her, or Belial, as they walked over to the inn. “It is all right,” he whispered to either of them, to his mind, to things that lingered and shorn. “We have had nothing before.” And this was more than naught. He still had a home. He still had a life. He still had goals. He still had plans. He still had ambitions.
It was just going to take some time to stoke them again.
--
Eventually, he secured a room, and left promptly thereafter. At first, the customary duties lined up in his head: wander the confines, meander through the borders, dutifully watch the world around him. And perhaps that would only really change by modest degrees. For now, Deimos hung his head and walked, Belial and Zuriel following, straight towards walls, eyes eventually only for the top of the fortress – shifting momentarily, so that he could drift and ascend into the sky briefly, before making his way back down, and sitting upon its structure, legs dangling over the side, gaze far off into distance; a sentinel again.
Impossibly stupid and human.
It was one he’d likely known since childhood, but hadn’t been forced to revisit or endure its stern brows for some time. Not when he’d been immersed in the schism of other poor, poor choices. Or lingering amongst the clockwork bindings of cold, glacial calculations. These wounds struck and stuck harder now, because he’d tried so desperately to be more than the fool.
Instead, he’d blended straight into his rage, and paid the price. Had seen it, had expected it, had read the writing on the wall, but it didn’t mean the nuances still didn’t ache, still didn’t hurt, still didn’t maim and rip and –
He packed up portions of the front parlor and left other measures. He packed up his room into the bags he had; at the very least he’d remained Spartan in furnishings and there wasn’t much to pick after. Not like before. He tried to pack up the broken samplings of his heart and his lungs and his soul, but maybe they were too mangled now to bother with.
Then he and his companions marched out of the barracks, set to return as a soldier and nothing more when the monolith wasn’t reeling; a pat on the neck for Zuriel, intertwining his fingers in her long mane. Pretending not to use it as a crutch. Pretending he wasn’t sending a thousand apologies to her, or Belial, as they walked over to the inn. “It is all right,” he whispered to either of them, to his mind, to things that lingered and shorn. “We have had nothing before.” And this was more than naught. He still had a home. He still had a life. He still had goals. He still had plans. He still had ambitions.
It was just going to take some time to stoke them again.
--
Eventually, he secured a room, and left promptly thereafter. At first, the customary duties lined up in his head: wander the confines, meander through the borders, dutifully watch the world around him. And perhaps that would only really change by modest degrees. For now, Deimos hung his head and walked, Belial and Zuriel following, straight towards walls, eyes eventually only for the top of the fortress – shifting momentarily, so that he could drift and ascend into the sky briefly, before making his way back down, and sitting upon its structure, legs dangling over the side, gaze far off into distance; a sentinel again.
Impossibly stupid and human.
watch your body pull itself back together
then let your soul do the same
then let your soul do the same
