DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
Embarrassment flickered and bound against him; not a familiar, accustomed emotion to the beast, which meant it must’ve belonged to Oliver. He pondered it, but made no comment, stoic and reticent once more, a rumble of a growl on the edges of his existence. An eternal fixture, most likely, mixed in with the weight of a thousand other conflagrations and doldrums, rampaging against his own walls and fortifications.
At least the smaller cat was aware, and apparently intended to make something of it. The ministrations of humiliation seemed to fade away at other predilections and notions, insistence on assistance replacing the submissive connotations. In another time, in another world, Deimos might have insisted on his intimidating factions, on glowering, on looming, on presiding in his unattainable, unreachable, primordial throng of pernicious precision; a threat, an omen, a warning.
Here, he merely breathed, inhaling, exhaling, before turning. Follow me. His coat didn’t quite blend into the eclipse of darkness, more accustomed to the moonbeams, to the luminescent glow, but he intended to wander out of the barracks lines and training fields, where the lawn and turf had been taken care of and flattened; more apt, more likely, to find something out in the longer entanglements of grass. All the while, his movements were precise and accustomed to predatory wakes, savage, but slow, maneuvering into the expanse as if he were ether, as if he weren’t there at all; another piece of shadow despite the ivory and silver coat.
At least the smaller cat was aware, and apparently intended to make something of it. The ministrations of humiliation seemed to fade away at other predilections and notions, insistence on assistance replacing the submissive connotations. In another time, in another world, Deimos might have insisted on his intimidating factions, on glowering, on looming, on presiding in his unattainable, unreachable, primordial throng of pernicious precision; a threat, an omen, a warning.
Here, he merely breathed, inhaling, exhaling, before turning. Follow me. His coat didn’t quite blend into the eclipse of darkness, more accustomed to the moonbeams, to the luminescent glow, but he intended to wander out of the barracks lines and training fields, where the lawn and turf had been taken care of and flattened; more apt, more likely, to find something out in the longer entanglements of grass. All the while, his movements were precise and accustomed to predatory wakes, savage, but slow, maneuvering into the expanse as if he were ether, as if he weren’t there at all; another piece of shadow despite the ivory and silver coat.
still standing
not because you can
but because you have to
