DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
Deimos had always been the cretin known to ignore his own needs. With their world frayed and fractured, he thought it selfish to turn inward – not when there were people to save, shelters to put in place, and threats blistering over the horizon. He was also the sort to run himself into the ground to ensure others wouldn’t do the same, and while it might’ve been hypocritical, the sacrificial aims had saved and salvaged multitudes over the course of his lifetimes, and it was difficult to break the primordial habits, no matter how often they’d all tried.
He pulled the canteen out of his bag and drank his fill, content for the moment with the bread in his stomach, capable of carrying on for however much longer they needed. Days? Weeks? Months? The world was fraught but they couldn’t be – not now – and he’d settled into the age-old routine of embedding strength and power, might and determination, into the echoes of the tundra like a vicious, unending demon. Still, despite having some recently, he held the container out for her thereafter, as they passed through greenery and life and symbols that shouldn’t have prospered an ache in his ribs.
He surveyed the plants quickly, not recognizing all of them by name, but grateful for their purpose. “I thought about moving the water back, but it would likely just return.” Magic to fold and maneuver and counteract, until they could get their bearings, but based on the layout of the land, it would begin seeping and sinking in soon after. So he followed her mantra and motions, the earthen wares in his veins plucking at stems and roots and ensuring they were stable, elongating and ascending towards the sky, twisting and turning with vibrancy and rigor. Pathways of whatever solidity they could muster, in a realm doomed to something else. "Maybe if I slowly evaporated it...," came on a gesture of machinations, starved for some other plans and orders.
The question made him laugh, a tired and exhausted one, broken and muffled back into quiet thresholds. “No.” He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d been to their home. Belial was off assisting in retrieving more forms from the lake, Zuriel was at the infirmary tending to wounds, and he’d yet to even begin processing Safrin’s aspects further. The whole thing felt like years and years before. But he tilted his head, gaze pinpointing on her while another fern prospered beneath his hand. “Have you?”
He pulled the canteen out of his bag and drank his fill, content for the moment with the bread in his stomach, capable of carrying on for however much longer they needed. Days? Weeks? Months? The world was fraught but they couldn’t be – not now – and he’d settled into the age-old routine of embedding strength and power, might and determination, into the echoes of the tundra like a vicious, unending demon. Still, despite having some recently, he held the container out for her thereafter, as they passed through greenery and life and symbols that shouldn’t have prospered an ache in his ribs.
He surveyed the plants quickly, not recognizing all of them by name, but grateful for their purpose. “I thought about moving the water back, but it would likely just return.” Magic to fold and maneuver and counteract, until they could get their bearings, but based on the layout of the land, it would begin seeping and sinking in soon after. So he followed her mantra and motions, the earthen wares in his veins plucking at stems and roots and ensuring they were stable, elongating and ascending towards the sky, twisting and turning with vibrancy and rigor. Pathways of whatever solidity they could muster, in a realm doomed to something else. "Maybe if I slowly evaporated it...," came on a gesture of machinations, starved for some other plans and orders.
The question made him laugh, a tired and exhausted one, broken and muffled back into quiet thresholds. “No.” He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d been to their home. Belial was off assisting in retrieving more forms from the lake, Zuriel was at the infirmary tending to wounds, and he’d yet to even begin processing Safrin’s aspects further. The whole thing felt like years and years before. But he tilted his head, gaze pinpointing on her while another fern prospered beneath his hand. “Have you?”
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
