DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
The morning hours were still dark; not yet obscured or beholden by the sun. Erebos wouldn’t be awake for a few more hours, given his own toddler routine. But early to rise as ever, Deimos had still rested his head against the pillow, the light rumble in his tone purposefully meant for Evie's ears alone, striving to explain exactly what had occurred and happened amidst Torchline. Eyes towards the wooden beams of their ceiling, his hands pressed against his brow, kneading away any potential headache as the descriptions began. “And that was it,” he surmised at the end, brows furrowed, as if still waiting for something to fall. For the other shoe to drop. For the messes to stay, brewing below isles and brewing around Starfall.
For all those responsibilities to come crashing down around him, again and again – and then suddenly disperse and disappear. Looming and alarming one second, and then gone the next. Relief was a strong word for it, and he still wanted to check, verify, for himself amidst the Tundra or elsewhere, but he couldn’t help that faint glimmer of hope residing in his chest. “Quite a way to start the season,” came along a snort, and another shake of his head.
For all those responsibilities to come crashing down around him, again and again – and then suddenly disperse and disappear. Looming and alarming one second, and then gone the next. Relief was a strong word for it, and he still wanted to check, verify, for himself amidst the Tundra or elsewhere, but he couldn’t help that faint glimmer of hope residing in his chest. “Quite a way to start the season,” came along a snort, and another shake of his head.
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
