[Training] against the tide

DEIMOS Delivered from the blasts The pattern repeated, a cycle unfolding between the two, one forging ahead while the other rested, testing the pinnacles of might and glory, the glory of their muscles, the sting of fatigue. Deimos breathed in and out along the natural incline of water, drank in the rushing impulses, felt as they fanned against his skin and pulsed almost in a broad sense of familiarity, back again? they mused in faint praise and welcome, all the liquid eventually the same, recurrent from land to land, from ocean to ocean. He snorted, lowering himself as he leaned along the chosen boulder, absorbed in the streamline and pressing current as it glided over his mouth and nose, came to slide almost at the bottom of his eyelids; a home he’d forgotten he’d had. It wasn’t ice or stone. It wasn’t mountains or cliffs. It wasn’t moonlit tides or the quiet, stoking ambience of ruins. It wasn’t fire and brimstone, melancholy or the void. It was power and prestige, presence and oblivion, a promise of resolve and determination, chiseled and sculpted deep down into his bones. Don’t forget it hummed and simmered along his skin. When Ronin tired again, floating along the embankment instead of the rock, Deimos pushed off the great monolith and became a loose anchor, whittling his way back up the tide. It wasn’t as easy this time; the slate and cringe of his muscles reminded him it’d been a long while since he’d committed himself fully to this certain task; he’d been dutiful in precision, in practicing with blades and knives, in aligning his invocations to certain aptitudes, but swimming and endurance had slunk away in those hours. He’d be returning then, sooner rather than later, a pledge and vow to himself, to the river, to the tributaries funneling off the sides of summits and glaciers. But he still pulsed and presided, arms coming over his head and then channeling the same function and movement as before, breath even and diligent, a series of motions repeated over and over and over again. It was a rhythm, restless and fervent, eager and diligent, an all-consuming mission occupying his mind. He swam and he swam, clawing his way through the breadth and fathoms, always, eternally daring. His body nettled and thorned its aches again, and he gave in, throwing his head back and letting the water take him back to the stone. In the distance, he could hear Ronin’s inquiry, and he turned his cranium back towards the reincarnated man; smiling hap-hazardly. “At the sea, would be my guess.” He had half a notion to follow it down, in some way, shape, or form, so he could view the ocean again, so he could be drenched in sea-salt air and gull cries, so he could imagine home (the first; born of fire and water and animosity and love). the last of a line of lasts