DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
Rexanna fit exactly where she had before – tucked beneath his jaw – enveloped by arms and muscles and kept guarded, sheltered, for exactly the length of the hug – before he had to turn her over to the rest of the world and the void again. Stepping back, he sighed and smiled, head tilting to watch her, to take in the possibilities and probabilities that hadn’t been there before. Maybe the days where he’d let opportunities fester, rot, and die had faded; or he was tired of musing in memories, rather than living in the present, in the moments that mattered. “Understandable. It was a nice ceremony.”
He rolled his eyes mockingly as she poked and prodded him in the chest. “Busy, but that probably does not surprise you.” They’d once seen each other through wars, after all. His nose wrinkled in turn, but then he was allotted time to describe his son’s growth and development. “He is well. Fast. Kind. Talkative. Only a little naughty. He will be two in Deepfrost.” At which Deimos figured the worst would erupt. But then, because he didn’t know things about Mort’s realm far beyond the instances of peace, his eyes surveyed her, pondered over other circumstances. “How are you?”
He rolled his eyes mockingly as she poked and prodded him in the chest. “Busy, but that probably does not surprise you.” They’d once seen each other through wars, after all. His nose wrinkled in turn, but then he was allotted time to describe his son’s growth and development. “He is well. Fast. Kind. Talkative. Only a little naughty. He will be two in Deepfrost.” At which Deimos figured the worst would erupt. But then, because he didn’t know things about Mort’s realm far beyond the instances of peace, his eyes surveyed her, pondered over other circumstances. “How are you?”
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
