DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
The lack of menace thereafter allowed some of the ramparts and fortifications to fall: his backbone less rigid, his shoulders less taut, the entire figure seemingly taking a sigh of relief, a breath in the footholds of sands and surf. Eternally ready for a fight, for defense, for cataclysms, and the rest was sometimes entirely unknown, scraping against the feral outlines of his lifetimes. He blinked and the guard in his gaze wasn’t so drawn and carved, less piercing, less chill, more like the water before them. He still glanced, he still pondered, about how the worlds collided, assimilated, conjured, and manifested – his eyes settling back upon the figure, one Amalia considered a companion by her expression during lantern making. They’d lost so many lately.
He bit down on some other bile, a tilt to his head to break apart the formidable reaches, more man than statuesque Colossus. A friend who could make fire – and his palms itched with the embers, the kindling, the incendiary pieces sliding between his veins, gifts and prestige passed from father to son. “No,” he answered at first; wondering if somehow he’d made it seem like he’d been contorted from this region, the way he blended and learned, or if it was just mere inquiry, a way to pass into the silence. “I was born in Isilme.” Outlander, no matter how many years he’d lived within these confines. But oceans were familiar, just as mountains, the threat, the power, the majesty, the danger, the prestige of them all curled and coiled through minds and manners. “Were you born here?” He extended and echoed in return, quiet, barely audible over the rising waves.
He bit down on some other bile, a tilt to his head to break apart the formidable reaches, more man than statuesque Colossus. A friend who could make fire – and his palms itched with the embers, the kindling, the incendiary pieces sliding between his veins, gifts and prestige passed from father to son. “No,” he answered at first; wondering if somehow he’d made it seem like he’d been contorted from this region, the way he blended and learned, or if it was just mere inquiry, a way to pass into the silence. “I was born in Isilme.” Outlander, no matter how many years he’d lived within these confines. But oceans were familiar, just as mountains, the threat, the power, the majesty, the danger, the prestige of them all curled and coiled through minds and manners. “Were you born here?” He extended and echoed in return, quiet, barely audible over the rising waves.
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
