The presented gift

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame The General never really knew what to do with other people’s excitement or joy; if it was a family member he might join in, but otherwise kept himself separated from ebullience and enthusiasm out of reserve and skepticism. Any exhilaration, beyond battlefield tactics (like age-old drums of war in his ears, in his blood), had been quickly snuffed out and scraped clean in the ilk of disaster, mayhem, and ruin lately. There was a temptation to reel back from Sascha’s rapture simply out of uncomfortable distinction, but he remained, steadfast, with the genuine smile crossing over his features, looking, glancing down at the ground, then back to the sheath and sword. “Thank you again.” He watched then as Sascha went towards the bow – the last time they’d trained had been with wooden blades, impacts and measures of force and precision, without the increased threat of serrated edges or knives. It’d been to learn the moves, the motives, and the upheavals. But it seemed Sascha missed the particulars of the bow; a glow akin to his features that Deimos recognized from many archers of the past. He stepped back then, a silent obliging, granting him permission with a nod, then the rumbles of his voice. “You may,” offering his quiver in return too, a few arrows still left in its sanction. Moving forward, he made to remove the others from the target, pulling them outwards, shifting a few strands of straw back in their place, returning to place them within the same hold. Once he was out of the way, it was all Sascha’s opportunity to lay waste to the bullseyes and goals. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace