DEIMOS
The Sword thought about taking his time, about biding movements into slow, meticulous moments, about charting courses around glacial views until he could do nothing more than wind up here. Perhaps he’d awaken from the nightmare by then, find the tragedy etched in his bones as nothing more than figments and fiction, touches of scalding wounds from yesteryears, and on the hollowed edges of a passing glance, the Harpy would holler. Feathers of undaunted plumage would reign across the sky. Untamed beacons would unfold. Everything would be well. Everything would be fine. Everything would’ve been just as it was – wild and liberating, devious and mischievous.But he’d learned long, long ago to cease mystifying his mind – and Kiada never returned. Gone like so many others from his past, present, and future, another ghost to rattle the chains of his soul, another phantom to haunt him, another life lost, and he couldn’t do one damned thing about it.
In too short of a moment, he was at Chulane’s door. Another doomed to be effected – already segmented and rooted in Kiada’s graces, and here he was, set to blow it apart. He hadn’t sent a letter ahead. He hadn’t told the man he was arriving. Maybe he wouldn’t be there, and this entire event could be avoided for another expanse. Zuriel snorted behind him, and because the monolith had never been a coward, he sighed, one long, lingering inhale and exhale, then raised his gloved hand to the door, and knocked.
He was something solid
to lean against
violent and fierce and unmoving
