[SE] we counted galaxies

DEIMOS

the resurrected sword

He watched and waited, appraising looks and glances, purposefully inveigling as she marched and then ceased. Already submerged up to his waist, and seemingly unbothered by the slight chill, a brow arched as comedic interludes seemed to take shape, unfold. The beast managed to muffle a snort through his chest, shaking his head at the squeaks and curled toes. “I am used to the cold.” Mountains had embedded, had infused, had sunk down into his bones, though this was nothing compared to Siberian landscapes and refugee adornments, settling into caves, clawing their way into salvation. He wouldn’t have survived on the Steppe or within the Basin if he couldn’t handle glacial expanses, the shuddering undulations of ferocity and bite. “I grew up by the ocean.” Another excuse and explanation; no child of the Tides would’ve been permitted to complain even once about the temperature of the sea. None of them had ever dared.

Thereafter though, Deimos proffered a rare hint of impatience; though mostly out of provocation and mischief. “Are you coming or not?” A taunt, a goading, a challenge as he wandered in deeper, until it billowed along his abdomen, rising towards his ribcage. Either out of pity or exasperation, he unfurled contortions towards the water – compelling it to become warmer around her.

Then, because devilry existed in his soul (and she must’ve expected it by now), he contorted the undulations, the current, to splash towards her, a cascade of droplets, a shroud of irreverence.

under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed