I carried my own ashes to the mountains
The otherwise stillness made the noise easy to track. A few more jingles, a crisp sound floating like a melody across ivory and pale outsets, instigated and incited his movements. Curiosity vastly instilled, plain to see in the archaic, predacious sway of his motions, nose to the ground, and then upwards, as he pressed over the crest of a smaller knoll, beyond barrows and mounds, to where there was a flurry, a small chorus, of the bells.
Insects rose from the ground, with their adornments and attachments, and he might’ve laughed at the sight of it, at the arc and lilt of their songs. Instead, he sat in the snow and watched them begin to drift and float, mighty little unknowns surviving on the brink of so many other things. A tilt of his head, and the images still didn’t fade; no mirages, no hallucinations, no bizarre, interlocking dreams. Just moments scattered about that didn’t hurt or ache.
His ear flicked at the press of another’s movement, and his piercing eyes landed on her before the voice circumvented through his mind. That solemn gaze widened for an instant, and then returned to its normal stature, the waves of uncertainty piercing through.
Deimos didn’t even know what to say to her. A hound’s jaw clenched, and his stare settled back upon the bugs. No. I have not seen them before. No creation of his. All Frey and Rae and whatever other means and measures the deities had instilled.
The Sword remained very still thereafter, yearning to retreat into himself, and knowing full well that it wouldn’t solve anything. Except this wasn’t a problem he’d orchestrated or conducted – only been surrounded by, in foolish attempts to gain footholds back. Are you feeling better?
Insects rose from the ground, with their adornments and attachments, and he might’ve laughed at the sight of it, at the arc and lilt of their songs. Instead, he sat in the snow and watched them begin to drift and float, mighty little unknowns surviving on the brink of so many other things. A tilt of his head, and the images still didn’t fade; no mirages, no hallucinations, no bizarre, interlocking dreams. Just moments scattered about that didn’t hurt or ache.
His ear flicked at the press of another’s movement, and his piercing eyes landed on her before the voice circumvented through his mind. That solemn gaze widened for an instant, and then returned to its normal stature, the waves of uncertainty piercing through.
Deimos didn’t even know what to say to her. A hound’s jaw clenched, and his stare settled back upon the bugs. No. I have not seen them before. No creation of his. All Frey and Rae and whatever other means and measures the deities had instilled.
The Sword remained very still thereafter, yearning to retreat into himself, and knowing full well that it wouldn’t solve anything. Except this wasn’t a problem he’d orchestrated or conducted – only been surrounded by, in foolish attempts to gain footholds back. Are you feeling better?
DEIMOS
