Deimos
THE RESURRECTED SWORD
How did you survive? they ask
How long did you suffer?
how dark did they tint your dreams?The Sword wandered; mostly for the sake of clarity, for thoughts, for processing, for trying to find a way forward when all he wanted to do was fall straight back into brooding; melancholic ashes.
Their efforts had been in vain, like a pattern, like a cycle; try, try, try, fail, fail, fail, rinse and repeat. For some reason, he’d managed to be a determined slate along the intervals of the Spire, thinking, believing, this time would be different, and they’d make a difference. Perhaps the blight would have ended, would’ve ceased stifling and choking and wrappings its claws around Ronin, around Kiada, around any number of those effected. Perhaps they would have found a way to do anything other than provoke and instigate (like the rebellion, a strong start to backwards intervals, reshaped and remolded). Perhaps they would have been successful.
He snorted, dragging his cart, picking up a few twigs and sticks for the upcoming winter; kindling for fires, for whatever infernos or conflagrations they’d have to summon. It was mindless work, so his skull could be occupied by other venues and considerations, calculating airs, machinations grinding against his enamel.
What were they supposed to do now?
The beast felt limited, which was ridiculous, because he was also obstinate, stubborn, and tenacious, capable of bringing weight upon his shoulders and soldiering on; used to the cumbersome pursuits, the heavier endeavors, the bestial exploits. He could go to the Gods, ask and inquire, offer something he thought of worth, only to be ignored (the customary action; an expectation of defeat the moment he walked near a shrine). Could he contribute to the ongoing studies?
Then there was Long Night, pressing its chilling breath against the leaves, coming on the winds, on the churnings of time. Before they realized, it would be here, and more threats, more nooses, more impending strife would rear its malicious head.
His eyes drifted along the Glade, struggling not to clench his jaw, staring along the expanse as Zuriel wandered nearby – apparently very curious and inquisitive, and Deimos wondered if she’d never been here before. She darted close to the shore, to the embankment, then back again, allured by the glowing stones, soft, dulcet blues as the sun began its descent.
You will be better she rang out across their bond, and it sent a visible shudder down the length of his spine; she wasn’t even looking at him, and he couldn’t follow the echoes, the strains, where he’d heard the stanzas before – then she snorted and stuck her nose into the water.
How? he wanted to ask – but either distracted, deterred, or being purposefully obtuse, the unicorn didn’t answer.
Their efforts had been in vain, like a pattern, like a cycle; try, try, try, fail, fail, fail, rinse and repeat. For some reason, he’d managed to be a determined slate along the intervals of the Spire, thinking, believing, this time would be different, and they’d make a difference. Perhaps the blight would have ended, would’ve ceased stifling and choking and wrappings its claws around Ronin, around Kiada, around any number of those effected. Perhaps they would have found a way to do anything other than provoke and instigate (like the rebellion, a strong start to backwards intervals, reshaped and remolded). Perhaps they would have been successful.
He snorted, dragging his cart, picking up a few twigs and sticks for the upcoming winter; kindling for fires, for whatever infernos or conflagrations they’d have to summon. It was mindless work, so his skull could be occupied by other venues and considerations, calculating airs, machinations grinding against his enamel.
What were they supposed to do now?
The beast felt limited, which was ridiculous, because he was also obstinate, stubborn, and tenacious, capable of bringing weight upon his shoulders and soldiering on; used to the cumbersome pursuits, the heavier endeavors, the bestial exploits. He could go to the Gods, ask and inquire, offer something he thought of worth, only to be ignored (the customary action; an expectation of defeat the moment he walked near a shrine). Could he contribute to the ongoing studies?
Then there was Long Night, pressing its chilling breath against the leaves, coming on the winds, on the churnings of time. Before they realized, it would be here, and more threats, more nooses, more impending strife would rear its malicious head.
His eyes drifted along the Glade, struggling not to clench his jaw, staring along the expanse as Zuriel wandered nearby – apparently very curious and inquisitive, and Deimos wondered if she’d never been here before. She darted close to the shore, to the embankment, then back again, allured by the glowing stones, soft, dulcet blues as the sun began its descent.
You will be better she rang out across their bond, and it sent a visible shudder down the length of his spine; she wasn’t even looking at him, and he couldn’t follow the echoes, the strains, where he’d heard the stanzas before – then she snorted and stuck her nose into the water.
How? he wanted to ask – but either distracted, deterred, or being purposefully obtuse, the unicorn didn’t answer.
- until you had blood glistening on your teeth
- until your suffering paled in comparison to their own
- until you learned to enjoy the sounds of screams
