DEIMOS
The Sword followed now, on the beckoning strings of some other ethers and vestiges, simply basking in the unknown, in the tides of the looming mountains, their glory and shadows pressing over him – eager to know, eager to understand, eager to press on and on and on until they sunk into snow and earth. The sea of glass had fostered primordial things below the surface, and here – Here they learned this world wasn’t as godless as it seemed.
It was remarkably familiar, to coast on by or ignore it, refute it, abandoned pride long since instilled. But the other fibers clinging to his wings, to his feathers, to the tawny down provoked another sort of insinuation, and he didn’t know how to explain it. Amalia touched the surface first, eternally faithful, and he circled in his descent, eternally uncertain of where he fit in amongst leagues of deities and celestial beings. Nowhere, usually. Not on their realm. Not on their parameters. Save for two instances, they ignored one another.
The beast landed near, close to one of the sheen and bauble conjecture of ice, with naught to offer but his own existence. They’d never favored that before either. He was silent, watching, waiting, for the inevitable to surge and lance; his unworthy, undeserving mass the reason they would receive only the looming silence of snow and ice. Maybe they can guide us she stated, but to what? Into Halo’s rites and rituals? Into anything at all? The words ghosted through his mind, like phantoms and specters, the apprehension pooling within him along waves, because he didn’t want to ruin this for them again.
Safrin? he called, waiting.
"who's gonna let you?"
they asked. i said
"who's gonna stop me?"
