DEIMOS
what tried to destroy you
didn't have the strength
didn't have the strength
Once Gideon had seemingly had his inspection and examination, the peryton maneuvered at will: feathers permitting him to take flight, somewhere beside Zuriel, striving to tempt her into mischief. The unicorn was far too wise and far too proud in her own right though, and eyes were solely riveted on the priest; intelligent and cunning, while the Sword’s piercing gaze narrowed once more.
The only land Gideon could mean to signify was the Hollowed Grounds: a circle, a convolution, of things once striving to break free. But for a man who’d once had to defend it, who’d made his sanctum within its walls because that’s all they’d known, because they’d been dragged and placed there regardless of liberations or freedoms – he withheld something. Tucked it back into his chest, stifled the bombardments down. “There were bright spots there, once.” And he could give them all names, all the faces, souls, cherished, and most of them gone. “With the people, at least.” His head lowered for a moment, staring at the ground, before easing a long-held sigh, lifting back half a second thereafter, hands restless, poised to drift back to the unicorn’s saddlebags, fixing the fruit layered and gathered within.
The question thereafter stabbed and lacerated, even if it hadn’t meant to. He had no home. And that gaping sentiment blurred and blended against so many other grating intricacies; from lives before and lives present, so much that the sentiments stung deeper than his ribcage. “I have shelter in King’s End.”
The only land Gideon could mean to signify was the Hollowed Grounds: a circle, a convolution, of things once striving to break free. But for a man who’d once had to defend it, who’d made his sanctum within its walls because that’s all they’d known, because they’d been dragged and placed there regardless of liberations or freedoms – he withheld something. Tucked it back into his chest, stifled the bombardments down. “There were bright spots there, once.” And he could give them all names, all the faces, souls, cherished, and most of them gone. “With the people, at least.” His head lowered for a moment, staring at the ground, before easing a long-held sigh, lifting back half a second thereafter, hands restless, poised to drift back to the unicorn’s saddlebags, fixing the fruit layered and gathered within.
The question thereafter stabbed and lacerated, even if it hadn’t meant to. He had no home. And that gaping sentiment blurred and blended against so many other grating intricacies; from lives before and lives present, so much that the sentiments stung deeper than his ribcage. “I have shelter in King’s End.”
still you stand
sturdy and smelling of smoke
sturdy and smelling of smoke
