DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
Brutality had been embedded and ensconced within his skin for a pattern of lifetimes. It was expected in training, and in reality. He would hold nothing against Oliver for the wounds the other man had marred across him – an acceptance of his role, of the traditions steeped in blood. How would one accomplish something without practice, even if it was lethal and deadly? How would anyone deign to protect themselves without beholding some knowledge, some skill, in those parameters? Impulsivity, impetuous, and audacious designs would get someone to a certain point, but eventually the mind closed over, couldn’t fathom, couldn’t predict, and all that was left was ignorance in the wake of disaster. Not a good place to be.
He began to maneuver, one savage step after another, the tug on his wounds a miniscule offense, not ceasing, not desisting, from gaining closer access to the barracks. An audible snort ran through him at Oliver’s second inquiry – he couldn’t remember the last time someone had fretted over his wounds, but he gave a nod to Zuriel. The unicorn gave him some brief grief through their connection, but ambled over just the same, dipping her horn towards his lacerations.
So while he was mended and tended to, the beast considered the first again. Telling Oliver exactly what he could or couldn’t do what not Deimos’ point – he wanted the other man to be able to think for himself. Scenarios were never going to be the same, no matter which fight, scuffle, or event they managed to wander into. There wasn’t going to be someone to hold his hand every moment, or tell him exactly what to do. So the feline sat on his haunches, staring blatantly at the youth. Think. You are in a predator’s form. No one had told Deimos what to do when he attuned into a bird, coasting along on a hapless flight, descending towards the ground. No one had told Deimos what to do when he first shifted into a tiger. Or a bear. Or anything for the future. It was instinctual. It was inherent. It was already alive, well, and beating before them. How else do animals hunt? How do they catch their prey?
He began to maneuver, one savage step after another, the tug on his wounds a miniscule offense, not ceasing, not desisting, from gaining closer access to the barracks. An audible snort ran through him at Oliver’s second inquiry – he couldn’t remember the last time someone had fretted over his wounds, but he gave a nod to Zuriel. The unicorn gave him some brief grief through their connection, but ambled over just the same, dipping her horn towards his lacerations.
So while he was mended and tended to, the beast considered the first again. Telling Oliver exactly what he could or couldn’t do what not Deimos’ point – he wanted the other man to be able to think for himself. Scenarios were never going to be the same, no matter which fight, scuffle, or event they managed to wander into. There wasn’t going to be someone to hold his hand every moment, or tell him exactly what to do. So the feline sat on his haunches, staring blatantly at the youth. Think. You are in a predator’s form. No one had told Deimos what to do when he attuned into a bird, coasting along on a hapless flight, descending towards the ground. No one had told Deimos what to do when he first shifted into a tiger. Or a bear. Or anything for the future. It was instinctual. It was inherent. It was already alive, well, and beating before them. How else do animals hunt? How do they catch their prey?
still standing
not because you can
but because you have to
