DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
And then the rest were there – pieces and fragments of families (because his were gone; the respects paid in previous days, wishing they were here in the gentle lull of the rain), beholden fixtures in their lives, sharing in the moments, an extension of grins granted and given to Evie, to Kiada again (with an embedded eye roll; were they anywhere else he might’ve instigated some other measure). They were all they needed and required; no fanfare, no overwhelming fathoms, no overbearing depths. Safe, solid, and secure, familiar, comforting boundaries and pathways when solidifying other connections, oaths, and assurances. Safrin’s appearance was surprisingly subdued, the starwhales a grand effect, but he granted her the respect she deserved, for the willingness to come when he’d asked months and seasons before, nodding, smiling, swallowing down the notions of unworthiness, of undeserving contortions suddenly rankling, ravaging through his ribs.
What truly ground and rooted him to the earth though was Amalia, and the waves of apprehension curled, coiled away, attention for anyone, anything, else quickly dissipating. A rush and intake of air heaved along his chest, drifting through his lungs; her hand upon his cheek a balm to his infernal existence. The halting measures of age-old lines (I do not deserve you) faltered, fizzled, and faded; devotion an never-ending pulse, ardor an ever-present conclusion. He didn’t look elsewhere, piercing eyes for her and her alone, the restlessness and fervency blazing, the tempestuous storms fleeting and gone, fortitude and might returned. Prepared and primed for the next step in their journey, he nodded his assent, an echo of finality and eternity. “Ready.” This was all he craved – not sinister outreaches, not nefarious schemes, not daring, treacherous heights, not the scrape of sounds bounding across the battlefield: her, stars and cosmos.
What truly ground and rooted him to the earth though was Amalia, and the waves of apprehension curled, coiled away, attention for anyone, anything, else quickly dissipating. A rush and intake of air heaved along his chest, drifting through his lungs; her hand upon his cheek a balm to his infernal existence. The halting measures of age-old lines (I do not deserve you) faltered, fizzled, and faded; devotion an never-ending pulse, ardor an ever-present conclusion. He didn’t look elsewhere, piercing eyes for her and her alone, the restlessness and fervency blazing, the tempestuous storms fleeting and gone, fortitude and might returned. Prepared and primed for the next step in their journey, he nodded his assent, an echo of finality and eternity. “Ready.” This was all he craved – not sinister outreaches, not nefarious schemes, not daring, treacherous heights, not the scrape of sounds bounding across the battlefield: her, stars and cosmos.
I belong to you
the way the moon belongs to the stars
the way the moon belongs to the stars
