spilling dust

DEIMOS

ache first, but then let the cuts close
spit out the blood

The Sword, ever the curious wanderer even on his worst days, thought he knew King’s End well. After departing from the masquerade and all its scruples, he opted to take steps of nostalgia before flying home, long strides taking him towards Mourn. Blankets of snow obscured most of the flowers and benches, but he didn’t need them as landmarks; not after the time he, Noah, and Cordelia had spent in their brief exile from mountains and summits. Short-lived and busy as they’d been, they’d left behind cabins and gardens, and for the moment, it was bizarre to think it had ever happened at all. Government shifts, fire-forged wars, and angling of alliances and standpoints all fizzled out into these respites of repose.

Head raised, the march along the boundaries was steady and certain, until he noticed another distinction against the ground. Brows furrowed and inquiring mind already conjuring a myriad of questions, Deimos eventually reached the grove, and its well. Eyes raised towards its roofing, windows of nothingness, and then followed down the seemingly endless shadows lined with rainbow stones. That hadn’t been here before. Not bothering to lean over it, having learned from the new pools in the Greatwood, he instead snagged at a small pebble, and on an impish, juvenile quality still laden in his soul, he tossed it over the rim.

watch your body pull itself back together
then let your soul do the same