DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
The sea was not so readily a siren as the mountains; but still there, still present, in the back of his mind, familiar and enticing. Childhood capacities had clung and varnished from their depths, from racing across the surf, barefoot imprints in the sodden sand, the outcry of gulls, to the scent of salt on the breeze. Waves were candid reminders of days spent in youthful disarray, gallivanting far and wide, seeing which individual could hold their breath the longest, how long it would take their parents to find them along shoals and sandbars, what monsters riddled the fathoms as they dove. The ocean was like his mother, stern and occasionally unforgiving, and like his father, temperamental and strong.
So he roamed along its side, pressing his weight into the wake of its beauty, in the siege of its might. It wasn’t home, it wasn’t moonlit tides, lit by luminescence and wonder, but it was there, tangible, relaxing, soothing, for a mind constantly seething, sieging, or rampaging.
Maybe here, he could finally practice the blood-stoked lineage pulsing through his veins.
Last intervals and invocations had been made in abrupt haste: attempting to cast icy shields and wayfaring ramparts, melting snow and dragging dragon forms across deadly caverns. The time before had been mere discovery, and not enough time to soak in the awe, the capabilities.
He lifted one hand, and watched one wave curl, undulate, ripple from his ministrations. Stark, brutal reminders; like witnessing Stone’s castings, and he soaked it in for an instant, before repeating the movement, the gesture, fingers raised, fist clenching, as the water rose, steady and sure, revolving in a gentle coil, circling above the current.
So he roamed along its side, pressing his weight into the wake of its beauty, in the siege of its might. It wasn’t home, it wasn’t moonlit tides, lit by luminescence and wonder, but it was there, tangible, relaxing, soothing, for a mind constantly seething, sieging, or rampaging.
Maybe here, he could finally practice the blood-stoked lineage pulsing through his veins.
Last intervals and invocations had been made in abrupt haste: attempting to cast icy shields and wayfaring ramparts, melting snow and dragging dragon forms across deadly caverns. The time before had been mere discovery, and not enough time to soak in the awe, the capabilities.
He lifted one hand, and watched one wave curl, undulate, ripple from his ministrations. Stark, brutal reminders; like witnessing Stone’s castings, and he soaked it in for an instant, before repeating the movement, the gesture, fingers raised, fist clenching, as the water rose, steady and sure, revolving in a gentle coil, circling above the current.
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
