who we are and all that we're trying to be
Noise; leaves rustling, boughs breaking, snapping twigs and branches, enough precision and power in the movements for him to grab hold of the sword at his belt, hand placed along its pommel, ready to unfurl, unleash, whatever menace or machination deigned to rampage and ravage its way towards him. But then the cacophonies soften, and his eyes narrowed, Zuriel’s ears pricked, head swiveling, and he wondered if he’d relish a fight or just the opportunity, the excuse, to fall further into old habits. Into routines of nonchalance and ruin. Into primordial, primeval exchanges, blood for blood, devastation for devastation. If it was a monster, he’d cut and slash, if it was prey, he’d maul and flay apart, if it was human –
Her appearance caused an arch to his brow, and only because the first words were extended to Zuriel. While the unicorn gave a haughty, preening shake of her head, he fought against an eye roll, somewhere between a sigh and a snort, digits removed temporarily from the hilt of his blade. He said naught at first, studying, scrutinizing, examining quickly, efficiently, the way predators and hunters often did, contemplating judgements and capabilities within fragments, within moments, within instants, ascertaining levels of threats, of strength, of dominion. He didn’t recognize her at all – which shouldn’t have been surprising, but he’d met a vast majority of people on his comings and goings – perhaps she was from elsewhere entirely.
Then a name: Weaver, and something like ghosts, like wraiths, like phantoms in snow should’ve curled and coiled over his memories. But they didn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t; he’d been perished, dead, entombed in the mountainside before anyone of similar ilk had prospered their way into glacier valleys, intertwined in ancient story lines.
Reborn, here and now, resurrected, come back, to wallow and grieve again.
“Deimos.” Titles in the exchange, before roaming deeper, brushing aside a branch, maneuvering into a glade, shards of sunlight settling in beyond rocks and stones. The mare tilted her head, pondering on getting closer and granting her own introductions, but followed the Sword too, a low nicker of invitation billowing through her nares that the man hadn’t extended. “That is Zuriel,” he ensued from beyond, following known trails mindlessly.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
