Deimos
THE RESURRECTED SWORD
How did you survive? they ask
How long did you suffer?
how dark did they tint your dreams?Mistakes were a constant, and failures were imminent – his mother used to say it was how they would grow, even as her mouth took on a thin line, even as she watched him make the same ones over and over again, even he boldly proceeded where he shouldn’t have. He followed in his devotion, in his ardor, in his strength, might, and convictions; and if it led him down into rubble and ruin again, he would only have himself to blame. He followed and guided, escorted and guarded, never to touch the divine – always thought he was closer to the heavens with her, in the gilded, halcyon moments, either when they scorched and scathed, or when they whispered, crooned, and cherished.
“Hello,” Deimos murmured in return, intertwining fingers, hovering around her like a mantle, a dark cloak with wistful pieces amongst the rubble. When his portions were concluded, depths of sand stuck between toes, a rise of salt air, I wish I could have seen that brandished on her tongue, and it was a funny thing to him – to have never seen anything beyond these woods or glades; but he has lived too many lives and journeyed too many places, rooted in one and then the other, drawn by blades and glory, triumph and disaster, only to learn devastation was the only true foundation he’d ever held. One day they might see it again, the ripple of the waves and the vast unwinding of current, the tide rolling over rocks, only for them to appear later, when traces of water waned, pulled elsewhere by the moon’s clockwork disciples.
Then he listened, and despite his lack of imagination, gone with the stalks of plots and strategies, gone with the tomes and annals, the choreographed, artistic work of battlefield blood and sin-stained hands, he smiled at the notion of girl Amalia, dreaming of flying, no wings, no feathers, hastened to her sides. He wondered if some were born in the stead anyway – immediately recognized as animals, as beasts, as ethereal creatures, like the measures of his Abandoned veins; already known by the time they stole their first breath. Or did they all have to be earned, begged, asked for?
He likely thought of flying once too, before he was old enough to bear armor and carry swords – spreading his arms out wide across a great chassis, hollering and howling into the skies – and probably thwarted by an older boy or one of his parents before he made a sacrificial leap; blessed one moment, crushed and devastated the next. It might’ve been awe-inspiring for that singular second, to stand, to glide, to hover over everyone and everything.
But a tiny Amalia hadn’t been foiled or derailed, grinning at the notion of determination, the same thing he saw day after day, cultivated and concocted in the scheme of flight, in the realm of structures and perches meant to hold birds and not little girls. A gathering of friends below, a challenge, a provocation, how they’d all managed to slip away from unsuspecting elders, how mischief reigned even at tender ages, similarities sparked even amongst their differences; he withheld his laugh, but only because she’d persisted in the tale. His eyes followed her pointed measures, at the towering tree, at its monolithic shroud hanging over water – he would’ve launched too, if only for the thrill of the descent into the pool, scattering his companions with a wake of rushing water, a cool, chilling call to home.
Then failure, because while she hadn’t lacked motivation, aspirations, or ambitions, the world hadn’t granted or gifted her the plumage, or insight, of an owl. Friends had saved, mothers had scolded, and timeframe punishments had been arranged. A blow – but not forever. “She did not,” he chuckled in response, so his chest rumbled and his head unearthed itself from her crown, lifting higher, straightening out his form, so he could glimpse and wonder again. He wanted to say he was proud of her, that he admired her tenacity, that he wanted to stoke its efforts and alight her soul again. Instead, the twist of curiosity overtook him. “What is it like?” To fly?
Was it as natural as the enchantments seething in his veins – the death, the vehemence, old, natural allies and comrades to his damned, doomed heart? Or was it a learned, practiced nuance, that came with blessings and consecrations, granted and given to those who deserved?
“Hello,” Deimos murmured in return, intertwining fingers, hovering around her like a mantle, a dark cloak with wistful pieces amongst the rubble. When his portions were concluded, depths of sand stuck between toes, a rise of salt air, I wish I could have seen that brandished on her tongue, and it was a funny thing to him – to have never seen anything beyond these woods or glades; but he has lived too many lives and journeyed too many places, rooted in one and then the other, drawn by blades and glory, triumph and disaster, only to learn devastation was the only true foundation he’d ever held. One day they might see it again, the ripple of the waves and the vast unwinding of current, the tide rolling over rocks, only for them to appear later, when traces of water waned, pulled elsewhere by the moon’s clockwork disciples.
Then he listened, and despite his lack of imagination, gone with the stalks of plots and strategies, gone with the tomes and annals, the choreographed, artistic work of battlefield blood and sin-stained hands, he smiled at the notion of girl Amalia, dreaming of flying, no wings, no feathers, hastened to her sides. He wondered if some were born in the stead anyway – immediately recognized as animals, as beasts, as ethereal creatures, like the measures of his Abandoned veins; already known by the time they stole their first breath. Or did they all have to be earned, begged, asked for?
He likely thought of flying once too, before he was old enough to bear armor and carry swords – spreading his arms out wide across a great chassis, hollering and howling into the skies – and probably thwarted by an older boy or one of his parents before he made a sacrificial leap; blessed one moment, crushed and devastated the next. It might’ve been awe-inspiring for that singular second, to stand, to glide, to hover over everyone and everything.
But a tiny Amalia hadn’t been foiled or derailed, grinning at the notion of determination, the same thing he saw day after day, cultivated and concocted in the scheme of flight, in the realm of structures and perches meant to hold birds and not little girls. A gathering of friends below, a challenge, a provocation, how they’d all managed to slip away from unsuspecting elders, how mischief reigned even at tender ages, similarities sparked even amongst their differences; he withheld his laugh, but only because she’d persisted in the tale. His eyes followed her pointed measures, at the towering tree, at its monolithic shroud hanging over water – he would’ve launched too, if only for the thrill of the descent into the pool, scattering his companions with a wake of rushing water, a cool, chilling call to home.
Then failure, because while she hadn’t lacked motivation, aspirations, or ambitions, the world hadn’t granted or gifted her the plumage, or insight, of an owl. Friends had saved, mothers had scolded, and timeframe punishments had been arranged. A blow – but not forever. “She did not,” he chuckled in response, so his chest rumbled and his head unearthed itself from her crown, lifting higher, straightening out his form, so he could glimpse and wonder again. He wanted to say he was proud of her, that he admired her tenacity, that he wanted to stoke its efforts and alight her soul again. Instead, the twist of curiosity overtook him. “What is it like?” To fly?
Was it as natural as the enchantments seething in his veins – the death, the vehemence, old, natural allies and comrades to his damned, doomed heart? Or was it a learned, practiced nuance, that came with blessings and consecrations, granted and given to those who deserved?
- 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
