DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
The beast hadn’t gone to Torchline at all, despite the news of portals opening, too busy, too occupied with quests for healing. But now, as it sprawled out before him, as pieces and pockets of the ocean carved such a longing, yearning trace over his ribs and lungs – he hovered and soared, incapable of taking it all in on gliding breaths and singular stretches. The coast was reminders, some bitter, some grand, of those wandering instances of childhood, of days before swords were in his hands or death pierced every waking moment.
He would’ve taken hours, days, decades to explore every nook and cranny, had a call not resounded and echoed across the ridges of dunes and shore. It gave him pause, until he plummeted, listening, drawn towards the ocean swells and the growing crowd, pondering the wake of chiseled foundations and yesteryear recollections (something like the Undine – singing its song before being healed?). Perhaps it was fortune that Zuriel followed him from below, twisting and turning down to meet her, shifting to man instead of eagle. He didn’t even chance a glance towards those assembled, presuming he knew a great mass of them, some familiar, some strange, loitering along the outskirts as he so often did, waiting, waiting, waiting for whatever was bound to strike.
He would’ve taken hours, days, decades to explore every nook and cranny, had a call not resounded and echoed across the ridges of dunes and shore. It gave him pause, until he plummeted, listening, drawn towards the ocean swells and the growing crowd, pondering the wake of chiseled foundations and yesteryear recollections (something like the Undine – singing its song before being healed?). Perhaps it was fortune that Zuriel followed him from below, twisting and turning down to meet her, shifting to man instead of eagle. He didn’t even chance a glance towards those assembled, presuming he knew a great mass of them, some familiar, some strange, loitering along the outskirts as he so often did, waiting, waiting, waiting for whatever was bound to strike.
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
