DEIMOS
The stranger remained as he'd bid, and Deimos walked along, aloof, waiting – ready to either impart stillness or violence, the sort of being who had made his living assuming vehemence was the answer (and sometimes it was, it was, it was, the echoes and cries of a battlefield, the slash of a blade, the herald of drums, beats and fragments of maelstroms). Around those he recognized, knew, considered comrades and friends, cherished things he wouldn’t part with, the walls weren’t so rigid, weren’t so sharp, weren’t so vivid; here, along wandering grounds with the vast unknown pulsing in puddles and posturing nearby, the Sword couldn’t afford to be relaxed, in repose. This was no sanctuary, no haven, no refuge; the Greatwood took, the Greatwood gave, and balanced along enigmatic intervals in between. He had no intention of being amongst the swindled, the lost, or the broken. Not again.
But the other had more manners and eloquence than the Reaper could afford; an introduction extended: Loren – someone who had seen him, had noticed him, for one reason or another. Then the other extended his hand, and he gave his in return, quick, swift, potency and power in a single gesture. “Deimos,” followed by a narrowing of his blue eyes, a perusal, a study: warrior’s indulgences, constantly examining and scrutinizing another. Can I fell this one? the void might ask. Can he be trusted? another might insinuate.
Then the puddles distracted, deterred, and he followed along Zuriel’s treads; she danced and ignited further ahead, lost to zeal and fervency of each potential image. She didn’t answer his last inquiry, likely on purpose, blatantly inscrutable and puzzling when she wanted to be. When he glanced down at the glistening surface nearest his feet, he didn’t see either feathers or fire, but a drenching of water, like his mother’s alms and balms, her munitions, her grace, eerily composed into a funnel, a spout, drifting and journeying to someone’s drowned herald – like mercurial gods and their whimsical voids, shattering the earth one moment, allowing it to beckon the horizon the next. It twisted away after he blinked, as if it were never there – mystical and damning, the speculations curling and coiling along his mind. Too many things occupied the space, but for now, for these loitering, languid instances, he played along with their games.
He missed Loren’s reaction, didn’t see the emotions, didn’t look upon vacant tracks where tears should’ve been shed; secrets and furtiveness usually safe in his quiet, hushed harbors, keeper of keys, locks, and daggers. “What are they meant to show?” His voice rumbled in the abyss, in the void, in the glade, against the turning leaves and their hastening descent – the past, the present, the future, nothing at all? Perhaps Loren comprehended the fathoms, could make sense of their images, of their slide into naught.
But the other had more manners and eloquence than the Reaper could afford; an introduction extended: Loren – someone who had seen him, had noticed him, for one reason or another. Then the other extended his hand, and he gave his in return, quick, swift, potency and power in a single gesture. “Deimos,” followed by a narrowing of his blue eyes, a perusal, a study: warrior’s indulgences, constantly examining and scrutinizing another. Can I fell this one? the void might ask. Can he be trusted? another might insinuate.
Then the puddles distracted, deterred, and he followed along Zuriel’s treads; she danced and ignited further ahead, lost to zeal and fervency of each potential image. She didn’t answer his last inquiry, likely on purpose, blatantly inscrutable and puzzling when she wanted to be. When he glanced down at the glistening surface nearest his feet, he didn’t see either feathers or fire, but a drenching of water, like his mother’s alms and balms, her munitions, her grace, eerily composed into a funnel, a spout, drifting and journeying to someone’s drowned herald – like mercurial gods and their whimsical voids, shattering the earth one moment, allowing it to beckon the horizon the next. It twisted away after he blinked, as if it were never there – mystical and damning, the speculations curling and coiling along his mind. Too many things occupied the space, but for now, for these loitering, languid instances, he played along with their games.
He missed Loren’s reaction, didn’t see the emotions, didn’t look upon vacant tracks where tears should’ve been shed; secrets and furtiveness usually safe in his quiet, hushed harbors, keeper of keys, locks, and daggers. “What are they meant to show?” His voice rumbled in the abyss, in the void, in the glade, against the turning leaves and their hastening descent – the past, the present, the future, nothing at all? Perhaps Loren comprehended the fathoms, could make sense of their images, of their slide into naught.
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
