and the only solution was to stand and fight
The Sword didn’t often grant acquittals. He was not a merciful beacon of clemency. He didn’t pardon. He didn’t exonerate. Once someone erred upon him, his family, or his region, it was often lost altogether. Trust broken and severed; like lifelines and spilled blood, rarely a being who would settle for the same wounds more than once. So he glanced at Noah now with an air of consideration, wondering if he should bother. If it was worth bringing the walls down again. If the pleas were only because the losses had scaled, increased, and accrued, and now the Forsaken was at the crossroads of things he’d built and toppled on his own. It was a cold thought; but sometimes that was what Deimos was – guarded, reserved, and withdrawn from the pieces that had slashed at him before.
There were hordes of individuals who would’ve welcomed all the burden and plights and erased the mistakes, the marred portions, the lacerations from their mind. He wasn’t one of them – because in the worlds where he’d been raised, that would’ve been a death knell. Noah hadn’t cared before – too lost in his anger or frustration or accountability – and whether it was the passing of time or the loss of so many other things, the Sword seemed to be one of the figments and fragments that remained. Better people than himself could’ve let the demigod in without the slightest hesitation.
I cannot promise forgiveness. Not after everything. Not after all this time. He started, honest and forthright in Noah’s tempestuous tide of emotions – solid and stone in the wake of those parallels. But we have always worked better as allies and friends. He took a long, deep breath again, the frustration and unknown an irritant in his bones. I can try – but it will take me awhile. And perhaps that was the best he’d be able to offer, for now.
There were hordes of individuals who would’ve welcomed all the burden and plights and erased the mistakes, the marred portions, the lacerations from their mind. He wasn’t one of them – because in the worlds where he’d been raised, that would’ve been a death knell. Noah hadn’t cared before – too lost in his anger or frustration or accountability – and whether it was the passing of time or the loss of so many other things, the Sword seemed to be one of the figments and fragments that remained. Better people than himself could’ve let the demigod in without the slightest hesitation.
I cannot promise forgiveness. Not after everything. Not after all this time. He started, honest and forthright in Noah’s tempestuous tide of emotions – solid and stone in the wake of those parallels. But we have always worked better as allies and friends. He took a long, deep breath again, the frustration and unknown an irritant in his bones. I can try – but it will take me awhile. And perhaps that was the best he’d be able to offer, for now.
DEIMOS
