DEIMOS
The name the man provided, familiar even without the leopard form, conjured a snort out of the beast. Of autumn evenings and hellhound movements, savage strides unwound for knowledge and sagacity. “Chulane,” he nodded; remembering the minuscule tour he’d rendered, of bakeries and Shields, of training grounds and barracks, of things that felt like lifetimes ago, when only a season separated the notions. Were it better circumstances, he could’ve done more than growl or steel himself, instead there was a rumble, a reverberation, of irritation beyond the anguish, uncertain of anything and everything, relying on base instincts to calm the brimming, brewing exasperation. “You two seem close.” Not snide, not indifferent, but a statement warranting an explanation (something else had been laden amidst Halo predilections and provocations; failed to mention in any of the Harpy’s letters).
Any resolution to pursuing it further dropped like an anvil at the rest of Chulane’s news. So did his heart, cracked and punctured and blackened long, long before, chiseling another brittle vessel into bits of debris and ash. Weaver Hale, the Scythe, gone and dead, vanquished by a dragon.
It sounded like a joke, but it was really just seasons and cycles, patterns of his life, meant to knot and gnarl all over again. He tightened his hold on Kiada simply by accident, a tether, a line, an anchor where he could steel himself again, jaw tightening, resolve doing its best to hold him together by frayed ends, strands, and seams. Another friend taken, another bond severed, by misfortune, stupidity, or one and the same – recalling a woman of strength, conviction, and fire. A portion of him nearly asked how that could be possible, but circumstances varied here, in these damned halls of hell, and where he’d been capable of predicting warfare, flanks, and skirmishes, he was out of his elements here. When he thought he understood, something else felled him.
Weaver had known about dragons – likely heard about them all her life. What had she been doing?
Stunned, he missed Kiada’s inquiry entirely, the notions, ruminations, and sentiments curling past him. All he wanted to do now was flicker, dissolve, crawl into a hole, be whisked away by the darkness, by the surface threatening to drown him alive, willing to be taken by its current. The torment and agony seemed to continue assaulting, bludgeoning, gone from torture in the Temple, to anguish in the glade – where was he supposed to escape? Evade? Heal?
Was there any point?
Consumed, very little held him together now, the scraps of information collected in the back of his mind, something to peruse, consider, and ponder when he wasn’t swallowed down by the constant void. No more he pleaded to Kiada, silently, hushed, a feral whisper. I cannot take anymore.
All he could surmise was a brief nod, his head upon hers while he barely remained upright, asking for her strength because he was done, and a lacquered conviction. “I am glad you are safe.”
Any resolution to pursuing it further dropped like an anvil at the rest of Chulane’s news. So did his heart, cracked and punctured and blackened long, long before, chiseling another brittle vessel into bits of debris and ash. Weaver Hale, the Scythe, gone and dead, vanquished by a dragon.
It sounded like a joke, but it was really just seasons and cycles, patterns of his life, meant to knot and gnarl all over again. He tightened his hold on Kiada simply by accident, a tether, a line, an anchor where he could steel himself again, jaw tightening, resolve doing its best to hold him together by frayed ends, strands, and seams. Another friend taken, another bond severed, by misfortune, stupidity, or one and the same – recalling a woman of strength, conviction, and fire. A portion of him nearly asked how that could be possible, but circumstances varied here, in these damned halls of hell, and where he’d been capable of predicting warfare, flanks, and skirmishes, he was out of his elements here. When he thought he understood, something else felled him.
Weaver had known about dragons – likely heard about them all her life. What had she been doing?
Stunned, he missed Kiada’s inquiry entirely, the notions, ruminations, and sentiments curling past him. All he wanted to do now was flicker, dissolve, crawl into a hole, be whisked away by the darkness, by the surface threatening to drown him alive, willing to be taken by its current. The torment and agony seemed to continue assaulting, bludgeoning, gone from torture in the Temple, to anguish in the glade – where was he supposed to escape? Evade? Heal?
Was there any point?
Consumed, very little held him together now, the scraps of information collected in the back of his mind, something to peruse, consider, and ponder when he wasn’t swallowed down by the constant void. No more he pleaded to Kiada, silently, hushed, a feral whisper. I cannot take anymore.
All he could surmise was a brief nod, his head upon hers while he barely remained upright, asking for her strength because he was done, and a lacquered conviction. “I am glad you are safe.”
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
