DEIMOS
The Sword had no power of resurrection, no matter the title – only that he’d been granted purpose and prestige again, the reasons vastly unknown. New chapters and new lives and sometimes the same primordial patterns still managing to be repeated – except now, where they segmented off on an entirely different route and crusade, incapable of being swayed by those he met, by those he cherished, by those who saw him as more than a blade, more than a weapon. Ru’in had been segmented another life too, and whether or not there could be a third, Deimos had no answer. Instead, he could keep some portion of the boy alive, in the fibers of his ring, in the essence of promises to the Harpy.
He watched her hand tremble, clenching his jaw again, refraining from asking, only listening for the agreement, until his fingers closed over the precious object, and in his silent reverence, ensured it’d be safe in his clutches. His eyes glanced over the crafted charm, wily and cunning, perfected art in a young lad’s ruffian grace, a gilded glow settling amongst his fingers, opening his palm in case Kiada deigned to witness the event.
The warrior wouldn’t weave any new fibers or enamel into the trinket – nodding his assent at her insistence of the fox – having no inclinations of removing anything orchestrated and composed by Ru’in. This had been all the youth’s work, his blood, his sweat, his tears, his toils, his trials, his tribulations, his love, and the Reaper wouldn’t portion, discard, or waste those precious, wholesome, whimsical efforts. There’d been a time it was meant for her and her alone, and she’d have it again.
His incantations unraveled it at first, securing the bronze into a new shape, hastening the little fox to run rampant for a moment or two, as he coiled it all back together, a bronze band, a tiny, copper halo, twisting back into the surface. The vulpine, never to be ignored, hastened to the top, as if it were dashing, a duplicitous little thing with art in its veins and snares on its tongue. Then, furtively, secretly, the beast carved mountains on the inside, as if to remember their time along auroras and basins, never too far from home.
Then he lifted it back to her, gentle for one so large, so irreverent, so seditious, hoping it was enough. “I can change it, if you do not approve.” His gaze riveted back to hers, and waited.
He watched her hand tremble, clenching his jaw again, refraining from asking, only listening for the agreement, until his fingers closed over the precious object, and in his silent reverence, ensured it’d be safe in his clutches. His eyes glanced over the crafted charm, wily and cunning, perfected art in a young lad’s ruffian grace, a gilded glow settling amongst his fingers, opening his palm in case Kiada deigned to witness the event.
The warrior wouldn’t weave any new fibers or enamel into the trinket – nodding his assent at her insistence of the fox – having no inclinations of removing anything orchestrated and composed by Ru’in. This had been all the youth’s work, his blood, his sweat, his tears, his toils, his trials, his tribulations, his love, and the Reaper wouldn’t portion, discard, or waste those precious, wholesome, whimsical efforts. There’d been a time it was meant for her and her alone, and she’d have it again.
His incantations unraveled it at first, securing the bronze into a new shape, hastening the little fox to run rampant for a moment or two, as he coiled it all back together, a bronze band, a tiny, copper halo, twisting back into the surface. The vulpine, never to be ignored, hastened to the top, as if it were dashing, a duplicitous little thing with art in its veins and snares on its tongue. Then, furtively, secretly, the beast carved mountains on the inside, as if to remember their time along auroras and basins, never too far from home.
Then he lifted it back to her, gentle for one so large, so irreverent, so seditious, hoping it was enough. “I can change it, if you do not approve.” His gaze riveted back to hers, and waited.
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
