DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
Nothingness to begin their trek didn’t dissuade the Sword – if anything, it gave him more time to survey the domain, more time to figment and segment his sights on something so eerily, so enigmatically familiar, and not all at once. He blinked rapidly to ensure he wasn’t hallucinating, since it could’ve been a real possibility, the remaining coherence justifying it was a tangible, real thing as he crouched closer to its depths, unfurling a larger vial from his satchel. Nostalgia lingered in his chest, in his mind, suddenly, painstakingly, aching for a world he couldn’t ever have again. Despite all of the god damned antics, all the plotting, all the derision, all the savagery, there’d been bright moments within too – intervals beneath the cool, crisp mountainside, where the stars shone clear, where the hues dazzled the sights, where there was naught to rival supremacy, power, or beauty. There would’ve been Rexanna, and Kiada too.
He dipped the carafe into the contents of the springs, let his calloused fingers trace over the warmth, and remembered, recalled, how many times he’d slithered and crawled into such fathoms after a battle. After blood and loss. After demolition and mayhem, where every muscle screamed and every fiber howled, and where every scar still bled, inwardly, outwardly. The water filled into the jug, flowing, flowing, flowing, furtive, specious reminders of alterations and ailments, when he recalled Chulane was still there. Had spoken.
The chill running down his spine could’ve been the return of the sickness, or the resurgence of ghosts. Deimos stayed there a moment longer, hesitating, permitting the healing remnants to surge over his skin, his hand, until he lifted it out of the springs. “We had one of these in the Aurora Basin.” A nod, a clench to his jaw, as he regained his prior position, maneuvering closer to his satchel, and retrieving another flask. She’d been so close too. So damned close. “She would have.” An agreement, in the parting of souls, in the way the fire-laden youth had lived, breathed, and died.
He dipped the carafe into the contents of the springs, let his calloused fingers trace over the warmth, and remembered, recalled, how many times he’d slithered and crawled into such fathoms after a battle. After blood and loss. After demolition and mayhem, where every muscle screamed and every fiber howled, and where every scar still bled, inwardly, outwardly. The water filled into the jug, flowing, flowing, flowing, furtive, specious reminders of alterations and ailments, when he recalled Chulane was still there. Had spoken.
The chill running down his spine could’ve been the return of the sickness, or the resurgence of ghosts. Deimos stayed there a moment longer, hesitating, permitting the healing remnants to surge over his skin, his hand, until he lifted it out of the springs. “We had one of these in the Aurora Basin.” A nod, a clench to his jaw, as he regained his prior position, maneuvering closer to his satchel, and retrieving another flask. She’d been so close too. So damned close. “She would have.” An agreement, in the parting of souls, in the way the fire-laden youth had lived, breathed, and died.
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
