DEIMOS
Imminent confusion, his eyes veering away from their piercing depths and into cataclysms of distortion; mystified by the entanglements scratching and scraping their way into his skull; blinking rapidly, struggling to diffuse the layers. It didn’t work, and he thought about hanging his head, or curling into a ball, or flattening himself against a wall and peeling himself apart, lacquer by lacquer, until there’d be nothing left and the pain would stop. Would cease. Would end. He’d already forgotten the previous moments of conversation, if there’d been any pride associated in his words, in the way bloodlines had trickled down into his veins and administered the incantations, one by one by one – Morgan’s question surprising him, taking him out of the suffering stupor for a moment, not realizing he’d only been staring at the floor. “Yes.” They’d been close; someone the boy admired, someone the teenager respected, someone to hold aloft and regard in a brilliant light.
Then he’d lost him. A pattern, a cycle. Slain and gone.
“Were you?” He asked to neither of them in particular, as if it were normal to share details of brethren and family, head tilting, lilting, could feel himself continue to lilt to one side, as if any second he might completely keel over.
Chulane’s antics, methods, and motives were commendable – if he weren’t ill, the Sword would’ve seen right through them; laughed, maybe a great booming one if he were in any good spirits. Now though, the Chief had found a tried-and-true contortion when it came to Deimos, a childish, very juvenile aspect to the man that had served him well throughout his life: a challenge. A competition. The ability to overcome others. Galvanized, incited, and kindled, the dog nose disappeared, bringing on a boyish sneer instead. “I am better than Loren.” Nothing against the healer; but the provocation and dare was already there.
So he grabbed for the glass again, pushing aside the dread for impudence, insurrection, and sedition, swallowing the vile substance.
Then he’d lost him. A pattern, a cycle. Slain and gone.
“Were you?” He asked to neither of them in particular, as if it were normal to share details of brethren and family, head tilting, lilting, could feel himself continue to lilt to one side, as if any second he might completely keel over.
Chulane’s antics, methods, and motives were commendable – if he weren’t ill, the Sword would’ve seen right through them; laughed, maybe a great booming one if he were in any good spirits. Now though, the Chief had found a tried-and-true contortion when it came to Deimos, a childish, very juvenile aspect to the man that had served him well throughout his life: a challenge. A competition. The ability to overcome others. Galvanized, incited, and kindled, the dog nose disappeared, bringing on a boyish sneer instead. “I am better than Loren.” Nothing against the healer; but the provocation and dare was already there.
So he grabbed for the glass again, pushing aside the dread for impudence, insurrection, and sedition, swallowing the vile substance.
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
