DEIMOS
Heave the silver hollow sliver
Deimos had never hid from his magic – but it’d been wildly accepted in every land he’d ever lived within, expected, nearly everyone’s blood holding some sort of distinction, passed down, historical, ancestral emblems just as vivid as the banners their names bore. His father had molded fire from his bones, his mother possessed tactics in water, Huyana could embody the rain, and the list carried on, possessed and untamed, some emboldened properties meant for savagery, others components of gentler things, mending, soothing, and assuaging. It was too fluid, too natural, too everything; the death and damnation pooling in his soul, the flames scorching and searing, simmering and scathing, along marrow, and even the creation intonations, revitalizing sharper edges and keen, ardent beliefs. He hadn’t even thought to lament its distortions when thrown through portals here, the title of Abandoned pinned upon their flesh – endured that too, comprehending what it was like to be abandoned long before the lacquer had pierced upon his veins. The slightest of smiles curled along his mouth as her balloon popped; the serrated tip of her knife just enough to claim its victim, resounding and ricocheting along warren walls. He nodded his head as she declared more practice required. “There is always more to learn.” Once one task was mastered, then they could move on to another, the indent of his grin causing the cheekiest of dimples and adorned mischief, before he lowered his gaze, creating another balloon and string to replace the one destroyed.
And while he contorted, the inquiry bounded against him, arching his brow on curious whims and the slightest of surprise. Evie had never been adamant about assaults or sieges; much like Amalia in that regard, no matter how many times they’d practiced. Theirs often altered into some form of play, easier to follow, to understand, without the violence, the wrath behind it. His head lifted, features searing into more expressionless tactics while he released the balloon into the air, yanked on the thread. Had something changed? Or was she peeling away the layers of repose, seeing what lurked beyond the supposed sanctums and sanctuaries, the refuges leaving, threats closing in? Between the potential of the Ascended, Zariah’s return, and the enigmatic quandaries of Halo itself, anything could have been the cause – and he wasn’t certain if he should ask her, leave that to her own devices, her own machinations, her own choices. The Sword wouldn’t begrudge anyone the opportunity to hone their craft, regardless.
He could still remember the day he’d made the decision – gangly teenager, aching for a sword in his hands because it looked far more promising than scholarly indentations, because his mind was clamoring for vigilance, strength, and stalwart platitudes, because he wanted to defend, he wanted to shape, he wanted to believe in something.
Some of it had scraped away in the aftermath, when lethality was true and rang and his friends died around him. Some of it stuck to him like manifested terror, barbaric iniquities, the power of vengeance, the fluid and inherent strength.
The piercing depths of his eyes riveted back to hers. “The barracks have a training grounds now. We have more suitable targets there.” If she was interested; the offering in place, to come and go as she pleased, if she found it to her liking, or if she hated, detested, the very foundation of what it meant to harm.
Unite and spread the heart apart
