Deimos
The Sword didn’t have lifetimes of rejection instilled in his form – not from the power eternally stoked in his veins. It’d been widely accepted, and expected, amidst Isilme and Helovia, natural, inherent, marked and marched almost as a necessity in lands consistently torn apart by war. But here, where one bad seed had spoiled the entire multitudes of capable and willing people, he’d still held his head high. There hadn’t been his diminished ends, but a seditious, defiant, rebellious nonconformity, still striving, still trying. He didn’t have a family who’d repressed the notions. He hadn’t experienced an entire life where his magic was treated like a vice, like a sin, like poison and venom, rather than the beneficial ends and means.
And that was why he’d asked – because the overwhelming venture of a herald finally seeing one’s soul had a certain complexity.
His hands closed over hers, gentle and secure, the vague head tilt remaining as she pieced together feelings, emotions, and ruminations. A thousand things to puzzle in the midst, and he wouldn’t have been surprised if she wasn’t certain, or meandered along alternating, parallel paths. “And you do not have to,” he shrugged his shoulders, breathing in that acceptable answer as well. “But I am glad you still got to experience it.” And would again – given the state of her quest.
The other notions were easier – shell and rock collecting, and then the defensive necessities of training made his mouth catch in a snicker that would’ve been nearly nefarious. Vengeance drew the lines along his lips, parted them along with a boyish, but no less insurgent air. “I could find some time.”
And that was why he’d asked – because the overwhelming venture of a herald finally seeing one’s soul had a certain complexity.
His hands closed over hers, gentle and secure, the vague head tilt remaining as she pieced together feelings, emotions, and ruminations. A thousand things to puzzle in the midst, and he wouldn’t have been surprised if she wasn’t certain, or meandered along alternating, parallel paths. “And you do not have to,” he shrugged his shoulders, breathing in that acceptable answer as well. “But I am glad you still got to experience it.” And would again – given the state of her quest.
The other notions were easier – shell and rock collecting, and then the defensive necessities of training made his mouth catch in a snicker that would’ve been nearly nefarious. Vengeance drew the lines along his lips, parted them along with a boyish, but no less insurgent air. “I could find some time.”
it's not the waking, it's the rising
It's the fire it ignites
It's the fire it ignites
