DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
Relaxation was not a sentiment he was used to – more adept, more channeled, into chaos and apprehension, catering to the bombardments of the world around them. It’d been much the same way before, before, before – and only when they’d carved out momentary lapses in the thresholds had they ever found anything like repose. Fleeting and gone, so swift he’d hardly missed it, incapable of remaining tethered in its grasp. He searched for other things in voids, in abysses, in empty, darkening wastelands – and now his gaze pinpointed at the ceiling and wondered what on earth he’d been doing all this time. Where bones didn’t ache. Where wounds didn’t heart. Where everything didn’t feel so god damned broken. Where there were healing measures to be found, if he just allowed himself the moments.
The beast couldn’t see her smile, her smugness, her contentment, but figured in some way that it was over there, written on her face. He waited for a blatant ‘I told you so’ to echo across the hall, along the muck; something else for him to deny, refute, and refuse simply for the amusements in defiance. Deimos could hear it in the range of her contempt for a world that had something they’d always cherished – and there was a pang of homesickness clustered there in his heart (residual wants and yearns for things, for moments, he couldn’t ever have again). On a muffled grin, on a round of warm laughter that reverberated and resounded against walls, he responded in kind; a cheeky grin tempting the corners of his mouth. “Is that your way of asking for my help?” Because he was certain they could, and he had the right incantations for it.
The mud’s heat soothed a multitude of filaments and fibers, muscles, flesh, and sinew, and he gradually succumbed to it with the smallest of sighs, measuring them out in slower breaths, so perhaps she couldn’t detect it. The squawk of surprise signaled his earlier, instinctual prowess had worked, and he snorted, loudly, until they revolved into a round of exuberant, wild laughter. He only peeked one eye open to see the returning volley, the exclamation of his name resounding in some mocking offense, and made no maneuver to duck away from it.
Her aim had been decent; it hit him right on the clavicle, and then sunk down again, clinging to his figure with a careless, haphazard shrug. Only then did he lift his head, a Cheshire grin fixed on her, and without making any movements, any motions, the enchantments lifted the mire – intending to rise like a tidal wave once more, and sending the round her way again.
Only then did he give her anything at all. “Maybe you were right. This is relaxing.”
The beast couldn’t see her smile, her smugness, her contentment, but figured in some way that it was over there, written on her face. He waited for a blatant ‘I told you so’ to echo across the hall, along the muck; something else for him to deny, refute, and refuse simply for the amusements in defiance. Deimos could hear it in the range of her contempt for a world that had something they’d always cherished – and there was a pang of homesickness clustered there in his heart (residual wants and yearns for things, for moments, he couldn’t ever have again). On a muffled grin, on a round of warm laughter that reverberated and resounded against walls, he responded in kind; a cheeky grin tempting the corners of his mouth. “Is that your way of asking for my help?” Because he was certain they could, and he had the right incantations for it.
The mud’s heat soothed a multitude of filaments and fibers, muscles, flesh, and sinew, and he gradually succumbed to it with the smallest of sighs, measuring them out in slower breaths, so perhaps she couldn’t detect it. The squawk of surprise signaled his earlier, instinctual prowess had worked, and he snorted, loudly, until they revolved into a round of exuberant, wild laughter. He only peeked one eye open to see the returning volley, the exclamation of his name resounding in some mocking offense, and made no maneuver to duck away from it.
Her aim had been decent; it hit him right on the clavicle, and then sunk down again, clinging to his figure with a careless, haphazard shrug. Only then did he lift his head, a Cheshire grin fixed on her, and without making any movements, any motions, the enchantments lifted the mire – intending to rise like a tidal wave once more, and sending the round her way again.
Only then did he give her anything at all. “Maybe you were right. This is relaxing.”
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
