Deimos
“Any preference?” The tilt of his head indicated the eggs, listening to the crackle of the stove – waiting for the rest of the ax to fall. Her pout was almost expected, but better than what it could’ve been; anger and hostility again, brandished and brindled and barbaric, scalding across his back once more, the previous bout already healed by Zuriel, the scars not terrible, not deep. Just one more set in a line of withstood, stalwart proclamations and fortifications, the breadth of his existence and being encountering and permitting the world to stomp on his essence, as long as the rest of the sovereignty stood. He went back to stirring the food, waiting, waiting, waiting for the inevitable.
Then they came, a sudden barrage, and the beast smiled again. “Last night of Leafchange,” in the morning he’d broken down, and in the evening he’d flown, and in between had been a series of events befuddling, bewildering, and awe-inspiring, for a cretin, for a fiend, for a demon who never thought he’d ever be granted an audience with a celestial being. “I had been intrigued by the thought of flying. Of freedom.” Like Amalia and Kiada had, capable of embellishing their souls into the sky, of going anywhere, everywhere, they wanted, deliverance, liberation, and some sort of providential glow, coasting along the seams of the world – when all he’d ever done was race across it, battling his way across fields and plains, digging his soul into the underbelly of dirt, soil, and earth. “Amalia encouraged me to go see Safrin.” And then there’d be the moment of stretched despondency and misery, fully aware that he was Abandoned, that no god had ever been pleased to see him, to glance upon his representation, despite everything he’d ever tried to accomplish. “So I did, and she actually came.” The last intonation was a bit breathless and quiet, subdued, surprised, shocked; as if confused and befuddled still by the spiraling of events and circumstances; a smile remaining, chiseled. “She dropped me out of the sky.” And between the ghosts, the phantoms, the wraiths, the specters – who told him to fly, to fly, to fly, to soar on the edges of embers, on the wave of water, on the sprinkle of rain. “Thought I was going to die.”
Look inside yourself, the deity had said, had uttered, had proclaimed, as if there had always been something there – well beyond the notions of sedition and revolution, insurrection and iniquities, a thousand scorching suns and tempestuous storms – then it’d been clear. “The feathers sprouted on my arms and became wings.” The rest had unfolded from that moment, and he didn’t even pause to consider her comments about discussing him with Amalia (maybe there would be a day where he wasn’t a mockery, more, more, more than that); only adhering to the notion of flying again, peacefully, with repose instead of acrimony and disaster. His smile only grew brighter. “Sure.”
Then they came, a sudden barrage, and the beast smiled again. “Last night of Leafchange,” in the morning he’d broken down, and in the evening he’d flown, and in between had been a series of events befuddling, bewildering, and awe-inspiring, for a cretin, for a fiend, for a demon who never thought he’d ever be granted an audience with a celestial being. “I had been intrigued by the thought of flying. Of freedom.” Like Amalia and Kiada had, capable of embellishing their souls into the sky, of going anywhere, everywhere, they wanted, deliverance, liberation, and some sort of providential glow, coasting along the seams of the world – when all he’d ever done was race across it, battling his way across fields and plains, digging his soul into the underbelly of dirt, soil, and earth. “Amalia encouraged me to go see Safrin.” And then there’d be the moment of stretched despondency and misery, fully aware that he was Abandoned, that no god had ever been pleased to see him, to glance upon his representation, despite everything he’d ever tried to accomplish. “So I did, and she actually came.” The last intonation was a bit breathless and quiet, subdued, surprised, shocked; as if confused and befuddled still by the spiraling of events and circumstances; a smile remaining, chiseled. “She dropped me out of the sky.” And between the ghosts, the phantoms, the wraiths, the specters – who told him to fly, to fly, to fly, to soar on the edges of embers, on the wave of water, on the sprinkle of rain. “Thought I was going to die.”
Look inside yourself, the deity had said, had uttered, had proclaimed, as if there had always been something there – well beyond the notions of sedition and revolution, insurrection and iniquities, a thousand scorching suns and tempestuous storms – then it’d been clear. “The feathers sprouted on my arms and became wings.” The rest had unfolded from that moment, and he didn’t even pause to consider her comments about discussing him with Amalia (maybe there would be a day where he wasn’t a mockery, more, more, more than that); only adhering to the notion of flying again, peacefully, with repose instead of acrimony and disaster. His smile only grew brighter. “Sure.”
i rule the stars, not the other way around
