DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
The Sword hadn’t forgotten his son’s notions from the festival, but as they’d been secretive, furtive means, he’d half-wondered if it’d been something simplistic that the lad didn’t want Noah to see. Then there’d been news about Ru up to her old tricks, and the semblance of possibilities had run rampant in his mind; especially after all the other scenarios and experiences with the Valkyrie’s predilection towards disappearing, and well.
Intentionally swinging his son’s arm so the child might catch the slightest lift off the ground, his brows furrowed at the question. Sometimes Erebos was simply too perceptive, or nosey, because he couldn’t recall ever telling the youth about the current situation – so he must’ve been listening in at some point. Maybe he could create a parchment just for Evie and himself to communicate when things became far too much or unsettling for him; a kind of youthful ignorance and innocence they’d hope to maintain. Sighing, he ran his free hand through his beard, the rumble concocted coming low, in case passersby took notice. “Frey said she was fine. We just do not know where she is. But Ru has done this a lot in the past.” Maybe he was saying all of this for himself too; to alleviate the sorts of tension brindling and scorching his shoulders.
Turning quietly, he paused along the past, crouching so he could fully face the youth. “You know my burdens are not yours. I do not want you worrying.” How many of them could say they’d had a childhood free of strife? Deimos certainly aimed to maintain it – for however long he could. “What did you want to tell me from the festival?”
Intentionally swinging his son’s arm so the child might catch the slightest lift off the ground, his brows furrowed at the question. Sometimes Erebos was simply too perceptive, or nosey, because he couldn’t recall ever telling the youth about the current situation – so he must’ve been listening in at some point. Maybe he could create a parchment just for Evie and himself to communicate when things became far too much or unsettling for him; a kind of youthful ignorance and innocence they’d hope to maintain. Sighing, he ran his free hand through his beard, the rumble concocted coming low, in case passersby took notice. “Frey said she was fine. We just do not know where she is. But Ru has done this a lot in the past.” Maybe he was saying all of this for himself too; to alleviate the sorts of tension brindling and scorching his shoulders.
Turning quietly, he paused along the past, crouching so he could fully face the youth. “You know my burdens are not yours. I do not want you worrying.” How many of them could say they’d had a childhood free of strife? Deimos certainly aimed to maintain it – for however long he could. “What did you want to tell me from the festival?”
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
