Deimos
THE RESURRECTED SWORD
How did you survive? they ask
How long did you suffer?
how dark did they tint your dreams?Deimos had never been much of a dreamer: grounded in reality from early on, when the world was no longer a stage and he only had one integral part: survive. There were too many calculations to be instigated, too many motions to be machinated, too many intervals where it was just him, bordering on desolation and perseverance. He endured because he had to, and it left no room for lofty, lilting aspirations, even here and now, he felt somewhat foolish for wondering what it was like to fly – he wouldn’t have the moments, he wouldn’t have those breathless instances gliding and hovering in the sky. The Reaper had roots, and the Sword had ramparts, and somewhere in between there was no room for mercurial, whimsical, capricious things that had no foundations.
Her explanations came along though – other beings who’d been anointed and consecrated, Remi, Ashetta, capable of holding both forms, of wielding their flames and lightning and creation, then melding into animal precisions. He balked immediately at the insinuation of gods; she knew he was no one’s favored beast, and it had long since been embedded and carved into his soul that he was not worthy of their time. You are nothing the stars would yield. You are nothing the sun would beam. You are nothing the shadows would crawl. And all along he’d believed it – undeserving, irreverent monolith, indifferent and apathetic towards them in turn, caring little for their thoughts or interactions, giving naught, tending naught, applying naught to their prayers. Instead, he’d chiseled his way into warrior interludes and barbaric enterprises, silent slashes of blades, treacherous and terrible deeds for the sake of his people, his comrades, his kingdom, no apologies rendered to those who favored and savored life. “But they will not-,” he started.
She must’ve anticipated his rebuttal, the downward sweep of his gaze, leaning into her fingers along his cheek when he could only listen. Her excitement and ebullience was a palpable thing, but he couldn’t hope, he couldn’t yearn, he couldn’t long for things he wasn’t allowed to have – felt the walls clambering along his throat, his chest, striving to make her understand that no matter what he ever did, it wouldn’t be enough. He wouldn’t be enough.
He still didn’t understand what she saw in him sometimes, when everything else he ever committed to felt like the opposite; like knives and rubble, like demolition and ruin, like the spread of wildfire and infernos, like rage and vexation, meaningless ventures resulting in more questions than answers. If not for her, Rexanna, or Kiada, who was to say he would even be here – stagnant and bound for more brooding, more brewing, until he was in a tomb again, tethered to his destined catacomb. They hadn’t let him remain abandoned – and that was far more than any deities could ever give or grant.
You are so much more than that echoed against his skull and he shook his head, denial and insurrection because it was habit, incapable of accepting something that went against every fiber of his existence (demon, ogre, fiend, heathen, monster, beast, vermin, infidel, pariah). Perhaps he was too far gone, and change was too difficult for him even now, damned to erode and wither and decay over time – somewhere along the way he’d threaded his hands with hers, heaved a massive breath that pulsed its way through his chest. How to make her see that he was afraid to take the chance, that he no longer dared to hope or dream or wonder, that he didn’t want the opportunity ripped away from him the moment he stepped near a shrine, to listen to the echo of silence and nothingness (over and over and over again; broken records of forsaken, rejected requiems). “They have not answered me before. I doubt much has changed.” There was a self-deprecating smile on his lips, like ghosts and phantoms of things he’d never held or had, lifting his gaze back to stare into sable, signifying he was tired of failure, of falling, of defeat. Maybe he could convince her the idea was muted (when he didn’t want it to be; the contradictions pervading through his soul and tearing him apart – the crags and nefarious dealings and the frozen, chiseled, chilled heart uncertain of what to do or where to go).
Her explanations came along though – other beings who’d been anointed and consecrated, Remi, Ashetta, capable of holding both forms, of wielding their flames and lightning and creation, then melding into animal precisions. He balked immediately at the insinuation of gods; she knew he was no one’s favored beast, and it had long since been embedded and carved into his soul that he was not worthy of their time. You are nothing the stars would yield. You are nothing the sun would beam. You are nothing the shadows would crawl. And all along he’d believed it – undeserving, irreverent monolith, indifferent and apathetic towards them in turn, caring little for their thoughts or interactions, giving naught, tending naught, applying naught to their prayers. Instead, he’d chiseled his way into warrior interludes and barbaric enterprises, silent slashes of blades, treacherous and terrible deeds for the sake of his people, his comrades, his kingdom, no apologies rendered to those who favored and savored life. “But they will not-,” he started.
She must’ve anticipated his rebuttal, the downward sweep of his gaze, leaning into her fingers along his cheek when he could only listen. Her excitement and ebullience was a palpable thing, but he couldn’t hope, he couldn’t yearn, he couldn’t long for things he wasn’t allowed to have – felt the walls clambering along his throat, his chest, striving to make her understand that no matter what he ever did, it wouldn’t be enough. He wouldn’t be enough.
He still didn’t understand what she saw in him sometimes, when everything else he ever committed to felt like the opposite; like knives and rubble, like demolition and ruin, like the spread of wildfire and infernos, like rage and vexation, meaningless ventures resulting in more questions than answers. If not for her, Rexanna, or Kiada, who was to say he would even be here – stagnant and bound for more brooding, more brewing, until he was in a tomb again, tethered to his destined catacomb. They hadn’t let him remain abandoned – and that was far more than any deities could ever give or grant.
You are so much more than that echoed against his skull and he shook his head, denial and insurrection because it was habit, incapable of accepting something that went against every fiber of his existence (demon, ogre, fiend, heathen, monster, beast, vermin, infidel, pariah). Perhaps he was too far gone, and change was too difficult for him even now, damned to erode and wither and decay over time – somewhere along the way he’d threaded his hands with hers, heaved a massive breath that pulsed its way through his chest. How to make her see that he was afraid to take the chance, that he no longer dared to hope or dream or wonder, that he didn’t want the opportunity ripped away from him the moment he stepped near a shrine, to listen to the echo of silence and nothingness (over and over and over again; broken records of forsaken, rejected requiems). “They have not answered me before. I doubt much has changed.” There was a self-deprecating smile on his lips, like ghosts and phantoms of things he’d never held or had, lifting his gaze back to stare into sable, signifying he was tired of failure, of falling, of defeat. Maybe he could convince her the idea was muted (when he didn’t want it to be; the contradictions pervading through his soul and tearing him apart – the crags and nefarious dealings and the frozen, chiseled, chilled heart uncertain of what to do or where to go).
- 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
