DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
The Sword had been uncertain in the wake of the offer; if it would be too much in the vestiges of suffering, if it would hollow out any attempts they’d already made towards healing, or if it would land somewhere in between, and be not enough at all. Hushed footfalls managed along the cavern floor, and he placed the vial within his bag, reaching for another to fill, repeating the process carefully, sitting down on the embankment, watching as his water magic contorted and coiled again towards the glass. “When I ruled over the Basin, we would occasionally have to recruit others to join the land.” A shrug; as if it were common place for a kingdom’s numbers to suffer and dwindle, for people to come and go, for wreckage, ruin, and then prosperity. Sometimes it’d been cyclical, sometimes it’d been after wars, sometimes it’d been within peace. “So we held a contest. Thought it might motivate.” Half a smile emerged along the corners of his mouth, and his eyes cast upon the pool again, lost a little, in the memories of times where no one had yet perished or departed.
“She was still quite young, but far more bolder and determined than the rest of them.” A glimpse, a picture, contorted through his mind, of little Kiada, adorned in her fire and embers, of how he remembered her defiant chin, her audacious steps – sharing it with Chulane across the Attuned bond. “Day after day, she worked tirelessly to coax people to come to the mountains.” Better and brighter than her brother would ever be – and the Reaper had been curious, then amused, by Rexanna’s daughter. “When the time came, her efforts had been far superior to everyone else’s. And she won.” A triumph, likely the first of many – before the Lord of the Basin breathed his last, and wound up here. The trials and circumstances aplenty. He arched a brow at Chulane, waiting for a comment, before proceeding into the other subjects.
He didn’t flinch, didn’t balk, didn’t shudder at the mention of Fiat Lux – because he’d had wonderful, grand memories there, and then disastrous ones too. They hadn’t even attended the last one. He took in a deep breath, permitting the exhale to last far longer than the inhale, until it flickered and beat against his lungs, and then the plumes and pockets of air. “The celebration was better in prior years,” a smirk resting there, an offhand comment to days when they hadn’t been so bent, broken, and bleeding from the inside out. “Kiada and I once shot flower crowns at the crowd, using the catapult.” A picture he’d let Chulane imagine for himself.
The third vial followed after the others, until he only had two left, resuming the pattern, except dangling his limbs over the edge this time, permitting the heat to smolder around the fringes and boundaries. At the other man’s statement, he found he didn’t know much of the man’s history; some adornments from family dinners, where he’d had no idea that last words had been uttered towards him, where the last sparks of sedition infused with laughter would no longer ring against his ears. “Where did you come from?” Outlanders – swept away from the midst of all they’d known.
“She was still quite young, but far more bolder and determined than the rest of them.” A glimpse, a picture, contorted through his mind, of little Kiada, adorned in her fire and embers, of how he remembered her defiant chin, her audacious steps – sharing it with Chulane across the Attuned bond. “Day after day, she worked tirelessly to coax people to come to the mountains.” Better and brighter than her brother would ever be – and the Reaper had been curious, then amused, by Rexanna’s daughter. “When the time came, her efforts had been far superior to everyone else’s. And she won.” A triumph, likely the first of many – before the Lord of the Basin breathed his last, and wound up here. The trials and circumstances aplenty. He arched a brow at Chulane, waiting for a comment, before proceeding into the other subjects.
He didn’t flinch, didn’t balk, didn’t shudder at the mention of Fiat Lux – because he’d had wonderful, grand memories there, and then disastrous ones too. They hadn’t even attended the last one. He took in a deep breath, permitting the exhale to last far longer than the inhale, until it flickered and beat against his lungs, and then the plumes and pockets of air. “The celebration was better in prior years,” a smirk resting there, an offhand comment to days when they hadn’t been so bent, broken, and bleeding from the inside out. “Kiada and I once shot flower crowns at the crowd, using the catapult.” A picture he’d let Chulane imagine for himself.
The third vial followed after the others, until he only had two left, resuming the pattern, except dangling his limbs over the edge this time, permitting the heat to smolder around the fringes and boundaries. At the other man’s statement, he found he didn’t know much of the man’s history; some adornments from family dinners, where he’d had no idea that last words had been uttered towards him, where the last sparks of sedition infused with laughter would no longer ring against his ears. “Where did you come from?” Outlanders – swept away from the midst of all they’d known.
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
