soldier boy
As the trebuchet flings its load towards a vaguely dragon-shaped target, Icarus isn’t quite sure he likes the look in Deimos’ eyes. But then again, he very rarely does, when the fabled Sword has some new magnificence of defense at his fingertips and people to train them on, and though Icarus may stare at the thing with a heathy does of nervous trepidation, his fingers itch for the cold wood under his sword-calluses. The day is another pattern of many frost-dusted, similarly biting days, the whirling wind stealing curls from his short ponytail and whipping them around his face. Still, even with the wind trying to steal his warmth, he meets Deimos' fiery gaze. The passion kindling there, the expectation of a job well done and the fatherly (no) chuckle that crackles from his lips are enough to warm the young soldier against Halo's unforgiving brutality, though, and he steps forwards with a determined nod and a quiet "Yes, sir."
He tells himself it's not the weight of Deimos' eyes that pull him towards the trebuchet, heavy and lingering as he heaves the rock into the basket. Icarus' strength is nowhere near comparable to Deimos' inhuman abilities, but the determined set of his jaw scares off anyone who may dare to offer their assistance, and his seasoned soldier's muscles eventually maneuver the thing into where it needs to go.
It's training, he tells himself, for what he's here to do. To defend his region, his home, the wild winds of Halo that rip apart so many but embrace those worthy of its love. And it is, truly, as the scars on his chest burn from twisted movement of loading the stone. It's nothing else.
But as he yanks the lever and sends the stone flying towards the dragon, it smashing into the grand and white thing leaving another stone-slashed scar on her man-made side, he can't help but sneak a sidelong glance to Deimos, mouth curling up in the slightest hint of a smile to see how the man would react.
He tells himself it's not the weight of Deimos' eyes that pull him towards the trebuchet, heavy and lingering as he heaves the rock into the basket. Icarus' strength is nowhere near comparable to Deimos' inhuman abilities, but the determined set of his jaw scares off anyone who may dare to offer their assistance, and his seasoned soldier's muscles eventually maneuver the thing into where it needs to go.
It's training, he tells himself, for what he's here to do. To defend his region, his home, the wild winds of Halo that rip apart so many but embrace those worthy of its love. And it is, truly, as the scars on his chest burn from twisted movement of loading the stone. It's nothing else.
But as he yanks the lever and sends the stone flying towards the dragon, it smashing into the grand and white thing leaving another stone-slashed scar on her man-made side, he can't help but sneak a sidelong glance to Deimos, mouth curling up in the slightest hint of a smile to see how the man would react.
Icarus
oh my little soldier boy
