DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
Midday swells and surf coaxed and inveigled, as he stood against the backdrop of jungles and fire, of autumn entanglements that hadn’t quite reached the coast. It might’ve been the wild nature of the shoal, of the tides, or just manifestations of too many yesteryears, of childhood ambitions and youthful aspirations binding him along the sands. It might’ve been nothing at all but the call of power, wild and savage, nature unraveling, releasing hidden gems of strength, tenacity, and potential, snagging and clawing at the rest of the untamed world.
Maybe he just wanted to remember.
He’d long since relinquished his shoes on the shore, pressing bare feet into the sands, wrapping long locks into a makeshift bun, and sparing a daring glance at Zuriel nearby. She snorted him away, a visible eyeroll determining she was not a being of the ocean – too much forest, greenery, earth in her bones – and that he could have his waves without her meandering amongst them.
He did exactly that, wandering out amidst work clothes, indifferent to their status or stature. It wasn’t the Moonlit Tides, and the beast had checked those nostalgic aspects out the forefront, reigning in layers of disappointment as he’d done in Halo, staring at the mountains that weren’t his own. The ocean before him would never be the one he was born beside, presided over as a rampant, gangly youth, but the zeal, the fervency, the power in each undulation and ripple were the same assignations.
The Sword took a breath, and then dove, carefree for once, shoulders not bearing the brunt, keen weight of other responsibilities and duties, streamlined along the running, rampant push and pull of the waves. Arms propelled forward, and followed the same pristine movements of ages before, when each child was taught to swim amongst those vehement curls and coils. Movement below his form caught his eye, and he only recalled seeing the creatures before as ghosts – flattened bodies, leaf-like tails, the bright crystal adorning their foreheads. Curiosity and daring beckoned, and he altered his path to trail after theirs for a time, before rising to the surface to take in air.
Maybe he just wanted to remember.
He’d long since relinquished his shoes on the shore, pressing bare feet into the sands, wrapping long locks into a makeshift bun, and sparing a daring glance at Zuriel nearby. She snorted him away, a visible eyeroll determining she was not a being of the ocean – too much forest, greenery, earth in her bones – and that he could have his waves without her meandering amongst them.
He did exactly that, wandering out amidst work clothes, indifferent to their status or stature. It wasn’t the Moonlit Tides, and the beast had checked those nostalgic aspects out the forefront, reigning in layers of disappointment as he’d done in Halo, staring at the mountains that weren’t his own. The ocean before him would never be the one he was born beside, presided over as a rampant, gangly youth, but the zeal, the fervency, the power in each undulation and ripple were the same assignations.
The Sword took a breath, and then dove, carefree for once, shoulders not bearing the brunt, keen weight of other responsibilities and duties, streamlined along the running, rampant push and pull of the waves. Arms propelled forward, and followed the same pristine movements of ages before, when each child was taught to swim amongst those vehement curls and coils. Movement below his form caught his eye, and he only recalled seeing the creatures before as ghosts – flattened bodies, leaf-like tails, the bright crystal adorning their foreheads. Curiosity and daring beckoned, and he altered his path to trail after theirs for a time, before rising to the surface to take in air.
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
