Change everything you are and everything you were
Your number has been called
He couldn’t quite fathom when the Grounds had suddenly felt like haunted figments to him, but it certainly did now, in the rush of movements, in the words echoing past his ears. Wessex’s return as Queen. Individuals either gone, left, or bereft, seeking out sanctums elsewhere, slowly drifting out one by one by one, until all that remained were portions of ash, dust, and whatever the rest could combine from those tethers and lines. His had been severed, strand after strand, until it was nothingness, until it was ghosts, until it was wraiths, phantoms, and figments; piercing him the longer he stayed.
Another shove of the catapult, and it labored onward – over cobblestones, and potentially Oliver’s foot, if the blacksmith wasn’t paying attention.
“You do not have to stay here,” the Sword presided, his brows furrowed. It would always ultimately be Oliver’s decision, to persist in the throngs, in the ricocheting cataclysms, where maelstroms lingered long before and long after. But there were always other options and alternatives.
But Deimos couldn’t radiate positivity either, not in this state, not in this moment, listening Oliver ramble, swallowing down the choking bile surging, yearning, to choke and throttle along his throat. “Yes.” Determination fueled him onward, pressing further into the roads, scanning the horizon once, twice, to ensure he was making the correct turn down lanes. “Something will be found.” Given their time, their energy, their resources, and the combined mettle of individuals, they’d find a way. He didn’t think of the other possibility, of wondering if they were living on borrowed time.
Another shove of the catapult, and it labored onward – over cobblestones, and potentially Oliver’s foot, if the blacksmith wasn’t paying attention.
“You do not have to stay here,” the Sword presided, his brows furrowed. It would always ultimately be Oliver’s decision, to persist in the throngs, in the ricocheting cataclysms, where maelstroms lingered long before and long after. But there were always other options and alternatives.
But Deimos couldn’t radiate positivity either, not in this state, not in this moment, listening Oliver ramble, swallowing down the choking bile surging, yearning, to choke and throttle along his throat. “Yes.” Determination fueled him onward, pressing further into the roads, scanning the horizon once, twice, to ensure he was making the correct turn down lanes. “Something will be found.” Given their time, their energy, their resources, and the combined mettle of individuals, they’d find a way. He didn’t think of the other possibility, of wondering if they were living on borrowed time.
DEIMOS
