Change everything you are and everything you were
Your number has been called
Standing before the building he’d helped construct, Deimos was very tempted to burn it all to the ground.
Perhaps it’d be cathartic, to watch it fumble and crumble into pieces the way his life seemingly had, another loss in a series of simultaneous catastrophes. Perhaps it’d be an awe-inspiring end to the disastrous melees, to the demolition of everything he’d achieved, an end to beginnings. Perhaps it would merely be petty, cruel, and vindictive, to leave no barracks behind.
But he didn’t, and a quiet sigh left his form as he traced his way into the front parlor, hand swiping over dust collected and formed. He took down his scaled maps of the Grounds, of footholds he knew and understood, rolling them up, placing them within his bag by the door. Valuables followed, personal objects, reminders of times and days where naught felt quite like oblivion, where he wasn’t wandering over portions of earth falling apart underneath him. The armory was left untouched, the renderings of each weapon would, could, be easily manifested again.
Stepping onto the training grounds left a mixture of emotions and sentiments too – days and hours stretching underneath suns and stars, gathering abilities and armaments, honing in skills and strategies, pouring whatever knowledge he could into the void. He’d leave the targets there, the mobile pieces to move and maneuver at anyone’s behest.
Then his eyes went to the catapult, still under its sheet, protected from the elements. A myriad of emotions scraped over his heart, his mind, his soul, at the thought of leaving it behind. Barrages of flower crowns, of stones and towers, of volleying petals through the air, before, before, before –
His hands went for it automatically, strength residual enough to maneuver it on his own power, pushing and shoving it along little knolls, determination fastening in his brow, in his wake, in his existence.
Perhaps it’d be cathartic, to watch it fumble and crumble into pieces the way his life seemingly had, another loss in a series of simultaneous catastrophes. Perhaps it’d be an awe-inspiring end to the disastrous melees, to the demolition of everything he’d achieved, an end to beginnings. Perhaps it would merely be petty, cruel, and vindictive, to leave no barracks behind.
But he didn’t, and a quiet sigh left his form as he traced his way into the front parlor, hand swiping over dust collected and formed. He took down his scaled maps of the Grounds, of footholds he knew and understood, rolling them up, placing them within his bag by the door. Valuables followed, personal objects, reminders of times and days where naught felt quite like oblivion, where he wasn’t wandering over portions of earth falling apart underneath him. The armory was left untouched, the renderings of each weapon would, could, be easily manifested again.
Stepping onto the training grounds left a mixture of emotions and sentiments too – days and hours stretching underneath suns and stars, gathering abilities and armaments, honing in skills and strategies, pouring whatever knowledge he could into the void. He’d leave the targets there, the mobile pieces to move and maneuver at anyone’s behest.
Then his eyes went to the catapult, still under its sheet, protected from the elements. A myriad of emotions scraped over his heart, his mind, his soul, at the thought of leaving it behind. Barrages of flower crowns, of stones and towers, of volleying petals through the air, before, before, before –
His hands went for it automatically, strength residual enough to maneuver it on his own power, pushing and shoving it along little knolls, determination fastening in his brow, in his wake, in his existence.
DEIMOS
