DEIMOS
The fierce bout of determination in the Sword stilled for a few moments, sketching out details too long and too lengthy, a rounding of numbers of things that didn’t work or couldn’t possibly, beings that had somehow been instilled with the pestilence, and everything too little too late. They hadn’t understood it in time. They hadn’t withstood it in time. They were ignorant, especially him, as to where to go or what to do – and the most frustrating part was that they tried, they tried, they tried, and none of it seemed to matter, tailspins and labyrinths and warrens, coiled and contorted into nothingness. The only contortion to violence didn’t work – and because it was amongst the only notions and motions he understood, he was at a loss. A damned, mumbling loss, and it wasn’t getting any easier. But he wasn’t going to give in. He refused. He rebelled. He ground his teeth and clenched his jaw and stupidly rose in defiance against all these stupid onslaughts and swore oaths to contortions he had no control over.
“Perhaps it does not matter now, anyway,” he murmured, mouth already half on the bottle, dragging down ample swallows until the fire burned, scorched, and seared, and he was alive again with vitriol and damnation. We cannot do anything for them didn’t follow, but it was there, in the insinuation. “We will find something,” settled there, somehow, someway, when they weren’t so world-weary or half-broken, jaded and torn, barely reassembled themselves, while the rest of the earth, the ether, became all the more distorted and shambled.
The challenge thereafter, issued and ensued from the alchemist, caused the Sword to arch his brow. “A happy thing,” smoked on his tongue as if it were an entirely foreign concept. Maybe it was to serve as a distraction, or so the entire conversation wasn’t a long-drawn out segue of disaster and ruin; already too tired from the rest of the preamble. “No one died in the Spire.” Was that jovial enough? Probably not. “We have another wedding to plan for,” which actually launched into a chuckle, because if anyone had ever asked him if he’d assist in plotting out nuptials twice now, he would have thought them deranged, demented, or insane. “Rexanna and Bastien’s,” he added, in case Remi hadn’t heard yet.
He was something solid
to lean against
violent and fierce and unmoving
