DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
Deimos hadn’t expected Cordelia’s emotions. Not when he’d spent multitudes of time used to very few caring whether he was alive or not. It had come with ruthlessness, with his occupation, with impassive antics that drew nonchalance from many a party – but he’d altered too, had forgotten others did the same. He gave a light snort, perhaps to wage and wave away the sentiments, the ruminations, of her worry and concern. It was easier to pretend he didn’t matter, than to face other bombardments of why, to dig deep into the value of self-worth. “As much as I can,” he promised; though it was an idle thing, a rumble in his lungs and out into the bonfire air.
He also hadn’t anticipated the hug, and laughed within the hold, a soft filament destined to flicker out. The Sword returned the gesture though, granting strong arms and convictions, and then a pat on her head, some volley of reassurance. “Would you be willing to watch Zuriel and Belial for me?” His gaze slipped to the companions – the latter bounding along the sand amidst the darkness, and the former staring at him rigidly, likely very unhappy with whatever she was sensing; notions of being left behind for her own safety. “And I am certain they will prove to be dutiful protectors.”
He also hadn’t anticipated the hug, and laughed within the hold, a soft filament destined to flicker out. The Sword returned the gesture though, granting strong arms and convictions, and then a pat on her head, some volley of reassurance. “Would you be willing to watch Zuriel and Belial for me?” His gaze slipped to the companions – the latter bounding along the sand amidst the darkness, and the former staring at him rigidly, likely very unhappy with whatever she was sensing; notions of being left behind for her own safety. “And I am certain they will prove to be dutiful protectors.”
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
