DEIMOS
A chase coiled at his senses, and it wasn’t about death and destruction, mayhem or menace, any sinking, crawling, dangerous intuition. There was no soulless void, no scythe, no cutting maelstrom or tempestuous storm behind him, but stars and shields and challenges; a reflection of dances they’d embodied in the spring. It ran rampant over the footfalls of their failures and defeats, brief, always so brief, slashing away from detrimental claws and torturous nothings. How often had he wished they could go back to simpler times (and had they been – after destruction and monsters – or was it mere nostalgia working against him, desperate for moments not contorted in ashes, cinders, and bones?) – and here they clambered and hastened on, drifting amongst stars, dust, and the moon.She must’ve given him a head start, looping around before conjuring again behind him, and his inexperience could work against him now – he dove, dove, dove, intending to plummet in haste, in swift, contorted measures, instigating trickier happenstances even if the game was orchestrated for him to be caught - and she’d be the only one he’d ever let snag, ensnare, and trap him, always directly in her sights, skimming on her refrains, willingly beguiled, allured, and spellbound. These were the predilections and captivations of a warrior though, easily coiled into dueling penchants and preferences, breathless on the air, lungs quelling and brewing their fervent iniquities.
He played into the skirmish and diversion, and though there were no people to bombard, to swing her within and laugh until their sides threatened to burst, they still had the eclipsing boughs, where he attempted to slide amongst and amidst; blending, camouflage in the darker cords. The Shield immersed them into provocations and the Sword attempted to wield them one by one, racing, racing, racing, delving along streaks of bereft, gnarled branches, intertwining his plumage into the daring measures – eternally sworn into sliding along their, her enticements one by one. When he thought himself free, trying to slow her down between knotted timber and the shadows of the evening’s hallowed halls, the beast maneuvered upward, rising on the wind, the breeze, higher and higher, then swooping, circling, waiting for the nuances of further hunting, tracking, and emboldened alms. Almost as if he wanted to be apprehended, so he could continue the pattern, give chase again (because he would – he’d always look for her, in one world or the next).
"who's gonna let you?"
they asked. i said
"who's gonna stop me?"
