DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
Different scenarios, different avenues, different methods, and none of them mattering in the slightest. They hadn’t been able to string or cobble their efforts together into anything but crooked, consigned shambles, and he’d be a fool to pretend otherwise. Diligent and stoic again, smothering it all down into his chest, into his ribs, into his lungs, into his bones, he returned once more to the sketch, piercing it along the paper until it was complete: a diagram of the skeletal luxere. Some portions hollowed out, some portions slivers of enamel, a rendering from what he remembered and recalled before ice and outcries, before stunned silence and impossible motions. The companion on his shoulder must’ve either felt the tension or simply intended to ease it before they all crackled and fumed, the purring reverberating against his cheek, reaching once more to strike and scratch beneath the gryphon’s chin.
No more was asked on the actions, on the ethers, on the vestiges. Perhaps that was just as well. He’d encounter it over and over again for as long as he lived, joining the plagues of battlefields, the rush of defeat, the crushing ache of loss, loss, loss.
He lowered his hands, following the length of his form down towards the sand, where he crouched, attempting to summon something from his creation enchantments. They’d been finicky as of late; and before he could loosen some snarl at the frustration when no gilded glow conformed from his hands, the quiet inquiry pervaded along sea winds. His eyes flickered upward, no longer on the shoal or dunes, but along Jigano’s shoulder, or a far-off distance, entangled with the roll of the ocean. It was only for a moment, focus riveting back to the grainy particles beneath his wake, head continuously bowed. “Besides pulling him out of the pit? LongNight.” And not the most pleasant of experiences either; Peter had been fine, quiet, subdued, as if taking everything in, while Adam had been an antagonistic fool; Deimos half-tempted to vanquish the idiot right then and there. The memory served as a rancorous reminder, scalding, scratching over the surface. “Adam helped me find some things for Amalia too.” A shrug; bones and soil along the Fields, after every other unwavering disaster.
No more was asked on the actions, on the ethers, on the vestiges. Perhaps that was just as well. He’d encounter it over and over again for as long as he lived, joining the plagues of battlefields, the rush of defeat, the crushing ache of loss, loss, loss.
He lowered his hands, following the length of his form down towards the sand, where he crouched, attempting to summon something from his creation enchantments. They’d been finicky as of late; and before he could loosen some snarl at the frustration when no gilded glow conformed from his hands, the quiet inquiry pervaded along sea winds. His eyes flickered upward, no longer on the shoal or dunes, but along Jigano’s shoulder, or a far-off distance, entangled with the roll of the ocean. It was only for a moment, focus riveting back to the grainy particles beneath his wake, head continuously bowed. “Besides pulling him out of the pit? LongNight.” And not the most pleasant of experiences either; Peter had been fine, quiet, subdued, as if taking everything in, while Adam had been an antagonistic fool; Deimos half-tempted to vanquish the idiot right then and there. The memory served as a rancorous reminder, scalding, scratching over the surface. “Adam helped me find some things for Amalia too.” A shrug; bones and soil along the Fields, after every other unwavering disaster.
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
