DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
A chance, an opportunity, to return to something before disaster and ruin and bedlam – where torturous crags didn’t mark and sculpt their way through forms and figures, where worlds hadn’t fallen apart at the seams. One look at the horizon were sentiments of worlds before, one glance at her meant more; his smile didn’t fade as it’d done weeks prior, curling boyishly at the corners. The encouragement of perfection offered a quiet snort, before he removed himself from the boat, dragging it to the shoreline as she dashed across the sands with basket in hand. His hands wove ropes around a tree, knotting the lines to avoid the vessel’s escape, while they absconded into paradise on their own.
Scrutinizing, piercing gaze swept across the land for a moment, habitual, honed from years upon years of measuring distances and calculating devastation – only now it was to ensure a safe conveyance. Passing his meticulous efforts, he drew himself back to her (and wasn’t that always the way – winding and contorting, pulled back toward the sun and the stars, when before, before, before had always been shadows, darkness), palm snagging at the proffered sandwich.
Her words echoed and bounded, lingered along his stance, a softened sigh brimming thereafter. For those precious few moments, they could pretend they were only beholden to one another. No responsibilities, no duties, no businesses, no barracks, nothing at all but them.
Instead of sinking further into the world they’d left behind, the Sword bit into his sandwich, chewed thoughtfully, mulling over mischief and phrases, swallowing down the remnants, then responding. “What profession would you take up here?” A wry grin settled on his lips, and his gaze landed on her only from the corner of his eyes, watching, waiting.
Scrutinizing, piercing gaze swept across the land for a moment, habitual, honed from years upon years of measuring distances and calculating devastation – only now it was to ensure a safe conveyance. Passing his meticulous efforts, he drew himself back to her (and wasn’t that always the way – winding and contorting, pulled back toward the sun and the stars, when before, before, before had always been shadows, darkness), palm snagging at the proffered sandwich.
Her words echoed and bounded, lingered along his stance, a softened sigh brimming thereafter. For those precious few moments, they could pretend they were only beholden to one another. No responsibilities, no duties, no businesses, no barracks, nothing at all but them.
Instead of sinking further into the world they’d left behind, the Sword bit into his sandwich, chewed thoughtfully, mulling over mischief and phrases, swallowing down the remnants, then responding. “What profession would you take up here?” A wry grin settled on his lips, and his gaze landed on her only from the corner of his eyes, watching, waiting.
I belong to you
the way the moon belongs to the stars
the way the moon belongs to the stars
