DEIMOS
Deimos was not a being of absolute power: the scars on his frame told any number of stories of his failures, of his faults, of his near-misses. He wasn’t immortal either: he’d died before, cast aside by his own magic, cauterized and brutalized on the inward lines, stanzas, tissues that could no longer repair themselves; betrayal for betrayal, weapons exchanged, used, then fettered away, fallen apart. He understood her fear, that perhaps this would be the final nail in the coffin for him, and on his last breath, his soul could no longer come back. As his joke flattened, and she gave no other response, he opted out of telling her his near-death experience in the cave, where he’d been stupid, where he’d rushed in, where he hadn’t predicted, machinated, or calculated a single thing, ran heedlessly, recklessly, into screams because somewhere along the line he’d changed into some indulgent, emboldened fool. Or the flinthopper and its burning, raging fire. Or wandering to the Fae Village, without map, compass, or aid, indebted to the wilderness and a sprite who occasionally blinded others. The patterns always managed to repeat, no matter how often he thought he’d veered off the path, circling back around to inept, ineffectual magnitudes, staring him straight in the face as he faced onslaught after onslaught, terror after terror – and for what? For what?
For friends. For allies. For comrades. Maybe they’d be the death of him after all; when he’d finally managed to find some in between dreary outsets and haunting, poignant hours, spent adrift, spent ashore, spent consigned to some measure and means of his own damned oblivion. How many times had he rushed amidst his kingdom, pulled stolen armaments and children out of the clutches of an enemy and lived to tell the tale? How many times had he invaded other lands, stormed other castles, and remained, just as indifferent, just as composed, just as cruel? Perhaps this was his comeuppance.
Here’s what you could have the world whispered. Here’s what you can lose the earth chiseled.
But, in the end, he would probably always fight for them.
The Harpy, at least, had other things he could focus upon, construct in his mind, besides the bewitching, enticing angles of his eventual demise at the hands of his own follies. The piercing fringes of his gaze settled back upon as she shrugged, mostly at the bakery (meaning Amalia; so he didn’t even bother hiding the small smile), and then the pit, the dungeon, the holding cell, too dark and too deep for him to contemplate. “What happened in the Pit?” He didn’t have any other experiences to amount with the hole in the ground, except peering down and dragging Adam out of it, silent as she sighed, another mass, another figure, meant to be a bulwark and a rampart. “Where do you want to be? What do you want to do?” He asked, brow arched, head tilted, muscles bunched and coiled as he leaned further along the bridge. Perhaps that was how they could start over, muddling and pulling their way through the mass of events and drawn conclusions, striving to piece together the here and now. Truth be told, he was stuck too, enlisted but seditious, replicating movements and motions, basking and clawing amidst the same mistakes.
For friends. For allies. For comrades. Maybe they’d be the death of him after all; when he’d finally managed to find some in between dreary outsets and haunting, poignant hours, spent adrift, spent ashore, spent consigned to some measure and means of his own damned oblivion. How many times had he rushed amidst his kingdom, pulled stolen armaments and children out of the clutches of an enemy and lived to tell the tale? How many times had he invaded other lands, stormed other castles, and remained, just as indifferent, just as composed, just as cruel? Perhaps this was his comeuppance.
Here’s what you could have the world whispered. Here’s what you can lose the earth chiseled.
But, in the end, he would probably always fight for them.
The Harpy, at least, had other things he could focus upon, construct in his mind, besides the bewitching, enticing angles of his eventual demise at the hands of his own follies. The piercing fringes of his gaze settled back upon as she shrugged, mostly at the bakery (meaning Amalia; so he didn’t even bother hiding the small smile), and then the pit, the dungeon, the holding cell, too dark and too deep for him to contemplate. “What happened in the Pit?” He didn’t have any other experiences to amount with the hole in the ground, except peering down and dragging Adam out of it, silent as she sighed, another mass, another figure, meant to be a bulwark and a rampart. “Where do you want to be? What do you want to do?” He asked, brow arched, head tilted, muscles bunched and coiled as he leaned further along the bridge. Perhaps that was how they could start over, muddling and pulling their way through the mass of events and drawn conclusions, striving to piece together the here and now. Truth be told, he was stuck too, enlisted but seditious, replicating movements and motions, basking and clawing amidst the same mistakes.
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
