DEIMOS
Letters and assurances, promises and vows, oaths he could rely upon forged, and then the inevitable. He’d marched along the Fangs caverns, striking along the familiar portal, ignoring the avenues, the corridors, of other measures and strife (saved for another time, another place, another moment when his strength could truly prevail), waiting for the appropriate hour. And while winds howled, while ice and snow built, while the flicker of ghosts, of memories, thought to twist and turn along his spine, the noon hour arrived.And with it, came Aisha.
He permitted an open, genuine smile at her appearance, distinctly untroubled, unvexed, rather than diving headfirst into melancholic efforts. “The Fangs,” the Sword offered, in a generous head tilt, encouraging her to glance and look around, at the glacial wonders, at the spectral expanse. “These can be explored later.” Far, far later; when the threats were slightly diminished, and he could forge onward without the notion of ursurs or something else immediately bombarding them. “We can start at the Citadel?” It would be a walk through tundras, through chilling marches, through voids and ranges that took him back to a world long since gone – perished and destroyed – but nestled in his heart, in his mind. A pause in movement and motion as he neared the open cave, with the stark, vivid ivory behind him, with the parallel reaches of endless, eternal ice, awaiting either agreement or argument.
He was something solid
to lean against
violent and fierce and unmoving
