DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Deimos had always been an avid listener. So despite the lingering threat, the bolder endeavors, he did exactly that – trying to parse through the layers, the pretenses. And despite all those stoic lines, all the cool, calm compositions, it seemed Dorian knew exactly where to hit and poise and dangle the bait.
He couldn’t deny the notions were tempting. An enticement. The Sword very rarely found himself lured or snared or beckoned forth on carrots and strings, on dynamics of which his entire life had revolved around and focused on for the past seasons. No more journeys to Starfall, no more flower searching, no more putting himself constantly at risk, all to ensure Halo, his friends, his family, his region, was safe. They’d be sheltered and sanctified.
Except – then what of Caido? He wasn’t one to believe himself a linchpin – but their combined efforts had been necessary. If he were to stop, if he were to simply cease and desist while the rest of them fought, who was he at all? What had he been doing this entire time? Would he be willing to place more of the burdens upon Hadama, Sunjata, Noah, Sah, and the continued list of those who persisted, bowing their heads, and soldiering on?
Or was this all a ruse? What would be left of the outside world, if he were to give in? Would he be willing to sacrifice those within other regions, other kingdoms, so their icy world could become its own prison?
There was nothing easy about the answer forming in his mind – decisive, despite the webs woven around and around and around, the quiet calculations forming. He could’ve been leading his own to slaughter. He could’ve been sinking down an inevitable line, drowning them all. But what good would their efforts had been, to relinquish it now? Why sink daggers into the backs of enemies? Why throw it away, when they were already so close? He took a long, deep breath, let the air fill his lung cavities, flicker against the ramparts. “Then I will have to decline.”
He couldn’t deny the notions were tempting. An enticement. The Sword very rarely found himself lured or snared or beckoned forth on carrots and strings, on dynamics of which his entire life had revolved around and focused on for the past seasons. No more journeys to Starfall, no more flower searching, no more putting himself constantly at risk, all to ensure Halo, his friends, his family, his region, was safe. They’d be sheltered and sanctified.
Except – then what of Caido? He wasn’t one to believe himself a linchpin – but their combined efforts had been necessary. If he were to stop, if he were to simply cease and desist while the rest of them fought, who was he at all? What had he been doing this entire time? Would he be willing to place more of the burdens upon Hadama, Sunjata, Noah, Sah, and the continued list of those who persisted, bowing their heads, and soldiering on?
Or was this all a ruse? What would be left of the outside world, if he were to give in? Would he be willing to sacrifice those within other regions, other kingdoms, so their icy world could become its own prison?
There was nothing easy about the answer forming in his mind – decisive, despite the webs woven around and around and around, the quiet calculations forming. He could’ve been leading his own to slaughter. He could’ve been sinking down an inevitable line, drowning them all. But what good would their efforts had been, to relinquish it now? Why sink daggers into the backs of enemies? Why throw it away, when they were already so close? He took a long, deep breath, let the air fill his lung cavities, flicker against the ramparts. “Then I will have to decline.”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
