D E I M O S
Vigilance and the power of observation had saved him more times than he could’ve counted – the blazing inferno of curiosity commonly wound itself through his fibers and flesh and segmented him straight into mayhem. Without the attentive contortions to his nature, death and disaster would’ve been imminent – the rushing tide, the scraping of sand, the crush of leaves and roots beneath an enemy’s boot, the tell-tale, sweeping indications that another lurked, another preyed, another contorted its way through his bones and called him to action. They stung and they carved, sculpted, infused his lungs and scorched his ministrations, until he was a behemoth of movement and motion. It wasn’t quite the same now, but there’s an echo of something sizzling and seething its way into his mind; the leopard watching him, him watching back, uncertain and apprehensive because the unknown gaped and stared at his existence and sought to mock him every step of the way. The Reaper craved answers, but wasn’t certain of where to ask or what he even sought, turning his head back down to the soil, trowel thrust deep into the soil, like a knife, like a blade, sliding under his power, little resistance, a futile exposition.
The feline crept closer, but with the humming drone of a purr, causing him to swivel his gaze straight back to the spotted beast, pondering if this was some form of attack too, and he was being lulled into a false sense of security, a gentle, coaxing hum before the storm, rampant and clawing his skin to shreds; gone, gone, gone at a moment’s notice. His jaw clenched and a stirring seized its way through his limbs, ready, a soldier born on the battlefield, where a second’s hesitation chiseled notes and knots of life and death, a narrow window of time, a key precipice to crawl away from or launch off.
But there were no showing of fangs (as much as he thought to raise his own hackles), no emblazoned bites hastened to his skin, and no talons or talons sinking, emblazoning, and bloodying. The cold nose pressed against his hand, striving to push the spade aside, a meow ringing in the air, explaining its pursuits as paws dug where he’d begun.
Deimos stared. He openly gaped at the beasts’ actions, before narrowing his eyes, unreadable, unattainable in that stretch of time while his mind roared and brewed, boiled the complexities of his understandings, of his comprehension, of the worlds he’d encountered and experienced. He hadn’t ever known any predators or wild, untamed animals who reflected a human’s actions unless they were companions, bonded and fused, interwoven, thoughts collected and pinned amidst one another. Or – another vein snapped in his membrane, the rush of vulture feathers, a vicious, raptorial descent, until it conformed into another, arms and legs, Kiada’s frame bursting from avian flight to a composed figure.
He shifted down the row, leaving the leopard to its newfound task, swallowing down the nuances and notions suddenly grinding their way into his larynx. Who are you? he wanted to shout and roar, played for a fool – or maybe not at all, and he was inept at the way beasts lurked here too. “Thank you,” he said instead, uncertain of how much was understood, uncertain of so many ridiculous things and he craved answers, information, with naught to go by but the twist and turn of his consternation and the building trepidation gathered in his lungs. Maybe he truly was an idiot and that was all there was to it – the signature sweep of ineptitude clattering in his veins, in his skull, where it pounded and drummed.
The warrior eyed the last of the bushes, and found a suitable location, intending to repeat his past performances, eyes still wandering to the cat, to the confusion, to the bewilderment plaguing his senses. He kneeled once more, spade sliding into the dirt and clay, carving his aggravation and vexation into silent, benign motions, wondering when he’d know anything at all.
