DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
The beast continued with his sketch, applying the pencil a little too darkly, a little too sharply, as Isuma remained on his shoulders, as the world spiraled, turned, and revolved, as if nothing they did really mattered. The luxere’s skeletal form continued to take shape, while his head was bowed, while his eyes were on the outlines, while his breathing strived to remain slow and steady. “He needed the heart of a rare creature, for Frey’s portion of the temple rebuilding.” He shrugged then, never quite capable of understanding the whims of gods, and not bothering to try. But there were dozens of other creatures they could’ve contended with, could’ve assaulted, could’ve ripped apart, without watching, without standing helplessly by, as their friends were mauled, mutilated, and destroyed. The what-ifs burned, churned, and rambled through his mind, as they so often did after the event, chafing, smoldering, simmering below his chest, because he was seemingly incapable of moving forward without someone answering for the debacle.
Then he’d taken matters into his own hands – or claws.
But Jigano’s quiet inquiry left something else grating at his senses, a familiar predilection they’d immersed themselves within a year or so prior; the words sitting heavy in his throat, in the back of his skull, where a thousand other decibels remained. They chiseled and sculpted, carved and whittled, and there were a myriad of moments or ways he could respond, jaw clenching once more, eyes narrowing to slits as he stared upon the paper, the parchment. “I blame him for the cannibal and going for the dragon.” He said naught of Wessex or Amun’s words, of instances strung between fallen temples and maimed Shields, of opportunities continually lost, of tempestuous, dangerous, treacherous leagues threatening to brew and brim. His voice was a mere murmur thereafter, hand quickly returning to the luxere’s image. “The rest was a lost cause.”
Then he’d taken matters into his own hands – or claws.
But Jigano’s quiet inquiry left something else grating at his senses, a familiar predilection they’d immersed themselves within a year or so prior; the words sitting heavy in his throat, in the back of his skull, where a thousand other decibels remained. They chiseled and sculpted, carved and whittled, and there were a myriad of moments or ways he could respond, jaw clenching once more, eyes narrowing to slits as he stared upon the paper, the parchment. “I blame him for the cannibal and going for the dragon.” He said naught of Wessex or Amun’s words, of instances strung between fallen temples and maimed Shields, of opportunities continually lost, of tempestuous, dangerous, treacherous leagues threatening to brew and brim. His voice was a mere murmur thereafter, hand quickly returning to the luxere’s image. “The rest was a lost cause.”
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
