who we are and all that we're trying to be
Oh, Zuriel understood, far more than Weaver could probably envision. The mare shook her head, an inward smirk and snicker sticking its way into their corresponding senses, unicorn and Sword; except she also comprehended why the reticence, why the reserve, why the nonchalance, so the jocular sting was minimal, in the face of grief and anguish. Any other time she might have let the haughty endeavors spiral against him, but not today. The inclination of her horn, of her head, of the way her eyes narrowed back at Weaver might have been a warning – or just an ominous, foreshadowed bend.
The Sword said nothing once more – choosing to dive headfirst into examining, into scrutiny, into battlefield tactics, on pace with her movements, threading his way through the forest, pivoting, following, watching how she maneuvered, how she bore her weight into the earth. The scythe should’ve sent him some semblance of a misgiving, but with the lack of care in his chest, in his mind, the conflagration wasn’t there. “Outlander,” he marked; could he be considered a Grounder when the Naturals once balked and hissed at their presence, or had a year of assimilating treated them to the word? Did it matter, really? But the General also noted her home of Halo, and something else hurt. Worlds and nostalgia, biting and lancing at him from all sides today.
He had no need to test the weight of his blade as she does; he knew every inch of it, had whittled it himself, had carried it along his belt, within his calloused palms, as if it were another lifeline, another thread holding him together, from unraveling, from fraying entirely. “We are recovering from the latest disaster.” Would Halo have heard of the death and destruction? The gleeful celebrations of life and survival, succumbing to its opposite? His teeth clenched, jaw tight, readying the weapon in his hand. “We are moving into another tradition started by the Fae: capturing the sun.” He didn’t have the heart to laugh at it now; at the ridiculous contortions, at how even that too would likely break and crack and fissure. “And in Halo?” Because if she was receiving information, so was he.
Then she came, launching, the cumbersome weapon coming towards his right shoulder. Deimos turned, a shift towards the left, so he wasn’t caught in the crossfire, in the haze of its potential menace; missing the graze, the slide of it nearly touching his clothing, his flesh. She’d be faster just based on build alone – but he had strength, power, and might behind his swings, reaching out towards her right hip, testing, testing, testing with the edge of the munitions, seeing if she’d be too open, and it could cut and slash across, upwards, on an incline towards her ribs.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
