DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
Fading; developing it only for it to dim – and here Deimos was, nearly dependent on its efforts, having to maneuver into other footholds and methods of old. “Perhaps something is going on.” But what he wouldn’t be able to ascertain, even if enchantments had always been in his bloodline, in his veins, in his heart, lungs, and soul. Explanations were often handwaved away, barely established, understandings and nuances there one day, and gone the next. It was all he had to offer now too, a state of confusion and apprehension, pondering if this was just a sentiment and rumination bound to get worse.
Again, he notched another piece to the statue, a little wooden head, elongated to resemble a skull, placing it surely along the body, long neck combined and contorted. Too mired and immersed in concentration, he didn’t notice the movement of sand beneath his palms, the maneuvering wake as they billowed; could’ve been the wind, could’ve been another alteration altogether.
Instead, his eyes went to Jigano’s assembled, glass wings, pondering if he could do the same for the little luxere’s eyes, or stick more towards metal; darker, darker, darker, to reflect empty sockets. He listened as well, to how the world cared for Adam, singing, capturing the sun, cheering them up by whatever mercurial whims and means suited his inclinations. A snort followed, flickered through his chest, while his gaze went back to the luxere statue, considering hundreds of things within singular moments. “He challenged me to a basket weaving contest.” A shrug, another snort, before applying tiny metallic fathoms in his hands, clutching their miniscule pieces, and then placing them along the luxere’s face. “Showed me his famous gun.” A blast of munitions – that eventually led him to being mauled.
Again, he notched another piece to the statue, a little wooden head, elongated to resemble a skull, placing it surely along the body, long neck combined and contorted. Too mired and immersed in concentration, he didn’t notice the movement of sand beneath his palms, the maneuvering wake as they billowed; could’ve been the wind, could’ve been another alteration altogether.
Instead, his eyes went to Jigano’s assembled, glass wings, pondering if he could do the same for the little luxere’s eyes, or stick more towards metal; darker, darker, darker, to reflect empty sockets. He listened as well, to how the world cared for Adam, singing, capturing the sun, cheering them up by whatever mercurial whims and means suited his inclinations. A snort followed, flickered through his chest, while his gaze went back to the luxere statue, considering hundreds of things within singular moments. “He challenged me to a basket weaving contest.” A shrug, another snort, before applying tiny metallic fathoms in his hands, clutching their miniscule pieces, and then placing them along the luxere’s face. “Showed me his famous gun.” A blast of munitions – that eventually led him to being mauled.
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
