DEIMOS
ache first, but then let the cuts close
spit out the blood
spit out the blood
The mare was first to maneuver once more, the haughty nod of her head indicating nothing at all but some inherent superiority, moving closer to the man, the glow of her blue horn beginning, summoning, healing incantations for the elderly gentleman.
From there, the Sword’s attention came in coiled, knotted, gnarled pieces, listening to Evie’s words, the way the man before them simply lingered, existing in the world merely to suffer. His jaw clenched again, piercing eyes segmented upon Yosef, taking quiet inhales and exhales, the suggestion of his magic to end and ease the pain something that gnawed at the edges of him.
For a long time, he was silent; the ticking and feathering of his muscles perhaps the only strung movement. Deimos had no problem, past or present, in obliterating an enemy. An adversary on the battlefield. A threat to his people. It came as easily as breathing – to ward off treacherous means with equally foreboding measures and means, without a second thought. It clung to his skin and pulsed through his veins, a vigilant course of action always ready, eternally eager for the fight. Wild, vicious, unholy, detrimental layers of contempt and vigilance, contorted in powerful, seditious layers.
But this individual was no abhorrent foe, no wrathful nemesis.
He could remember, recall, the painstaking course of his friends who’d survived the onslaught – but not thereafter – as blood curdled in their throats and chests heaved with sullen voids until they simply couldn’t any longer. Sometimes it took minutes. Hours. Days.
Rexanna lying on the table during LongNight. Saved, but just barely.
“It has to be his decision,” he said ultimately, after a long wait, his gaze on the floor. He wasn’t Remi. He couldn’t fathom how the Lullaby did it so frequently without falling to pieces. “Then do not ask it of me again.” Because this would be just as haunting as the rest of them.
From there, the Sword’s attention came in coiled, knotted, gnarled pieces, listening to Evie’s words, the way the man before them simply lingered, existing in the world merely to suffer. His jaw clenched again, piercing eyes segmented upon Yosef, taking quiet inhales and exhales, the suggestion of his magic to end and ease the pain something that gnawed at the edges of him.
For a long time, he was silent; the ticking and feathering of his muscles perhaps the only strung movement. Deimos had no problem, past or present, in obliterating an enemy. An adversary on the battlefield. A threat to his people. It came as easily as breathing – to ward off treacherous means with equally foreboding measures and means, without a second thought. It clung to his skin and pulsed through his veins, a vigilant course of action always ready, eternally eager for the fight. Wild, vicious, unholy, detrimental layers of contempt and vigilance, contorted in powerful, seditious layers.
But this individual was no abhorrent foe, no wrathful nemesis.
He could remember, recall, the painstaking course of his friends who’d survived the onslaught – but not thereafter – as blood curdled in their throats and chests heaved with sullen voids until they simply couldn’t any longer. Sometimes it took minutes. Hours. Days.
Rexanna lying on the table during LongNight. Saved, but just barely.
“It has to be his decision,” he said ultimately, after a long wait, his gaze on the floor. He wasn’t Remi. He couldn’t fathom how the Lullaby did it so frequently without falling to pieces. “Then do not ask it of me again.” Because this would be just as haunting as the rest of them.
watch your body pull itself back together
then let your soul do the same
then let your soul do the same
