DEIMOS
Kindness wasn’t a weakness. Beneficence and compassion were strengths very few held in the world, to regard themselves in a pious, stalwart light, instead of blending into the darker, brutal reverberations of life. It was so much easier to decay and fester, to wither and fall apart, find the nuances, the nooses, the tethers, the strings, the strands, that tore another into shards and fragments, that made them twist and turn into moral and iniquitous lines. He’d decided long ago to walk over it as though it were nothing – and it hadn’t been, not by a long shot – but the warmth was absorbed, befuddled, shorn, and cut away; no time for its tenderness, for its generosity, for its indulgences, not when he’d become so numb and calloused, so isolated and detached.
He’d always admired her ability to simply tolerate and accept anyone in her path. But he wanted her safe too – this world had lost the considerate, altruistic intervals, the sway of repose; brought on by throngs and dins of commands, of promised chains. Besides hovering over her constantly like an overprotective guard, he could do this for her, give her some idea, some methods, some means to counter those willing to crush, demolish, and devastate.
She didn’t have to become him. She didn’t have to become any of them.
The Reaper had already seen her dead once – carried her still form into Vai’s threshold and waited, waited, waited. There’d been hundreds before her, once vibrant grins and loud, raucous laughter, days before the inevitable plunge into demise and execution, into disaster and annihilation, and no amount of his abhorrence, his wrath, his contempt, had saved any of them. Even when he’d gone and plunged his sword into those that had felled his brethren, when he turned back, their hearts had pumped their last beat, their lungs had shuddered their last breath. He couldn’t bury them again – not the souls here, not the souls there, not the souls already cast aside into purgatory, waiting for his descent into hell.
Amalia managed to compose herself, managed to conduct the activity, and he didn’t care if her heart wasn’t in it (it didn’t have to be), he didn’t care if she never wanted to commit to it again (she didn’t have to), just that the option was there. The beast would be willing to continue his tradition of slaying anyone in his path, in her path; she wouldn’t even need to say the word.
They followed through on lines and movements, on slashes and possible disarming, her blade sliding beside the air near his wrist – then he committed the same, intertwining limbs into motions like clockwork, like rituals, like habits, refined in the art of mayhem and menace. “Let me show you another way,” and he set them up in the same stance as before – slowly, carefully, artfully dragging his dagger so that it caught at her wrist instead of embedding into her skin. “You can do this to stop your opponent as well,” effectively blocking her knife from coming towards him, and he flipped his dagger as if he were wrapping it around her the smaller portions of her arm. Edges didn’t catch; a smooth transition, trapping her motions, her weapon. Then he pulled down, both of their arms descending, except he pushed forward, following through, into her frame, capable of striking her with the pommel of his dagger, should he push it up towards her face.
Then he backed away, throwing up his arm, intending for her to take up the new movement.
Because that’s what they were going to do – react, react, react, until they were finally somewhere, no matter how uncertain.
He’d always admired her ability to simply tolerate and accept anyone in her path. But he wanted her safe too – this world had lost the considerate, altruistic intervals, the sway of repose; brought on by throngs and dins of commands, of promised chains. Besides hovering over her constantly like an overprotective guard, he could do this for her, give her some idea, some methods, some means to counter those willing to crush, demolish, and devastate.
She didn’t have to become him. She didn’t have to become any of them.
The Reaper had already seen her dead once – carried her still form into Vai’s threshold and waited, waited, waited. There’d been hundreds before her, once vibrant grins and loud, raucous laughter, days before the inevitable plunge into demise and execution, into disaster and annihilation, and no amount of his abhorrence, his wrath, his contempt, had saved any of them. Even when he’d gone and plunged his sword into those that had felled his brethren, when he turned back, their hearts had pumped their last beat, their lungs had shuddered their last breath. He couldn’t bury them again – not the souls here, not the souls there, not the souls already cast aside into purgatory, waiting for his descent into hell.
Amalia managed to compose herself, managed to conduct the activity, and he didn’t care if her heart wasn’t in it (it didn’t have to be), he didn’t care if she never wanted to commit to it again (she didn’t have to), just that the option was there. The beast would be willing to continue his tradition of slaying anyone in his path, in her path; she wouldn’t even need to say the word.
They followed through on lines and movements, on slashes and possible disarming, her blade sliding beside the air near his wrist – then he committed the same, intertwining limbs into motions like clockwork, like rituals, like habits, refined in the art of mayhem and menace. “Let me show you another way,” and he set them up in the same stance as before – slowly, carefully, artfully dragging his dagger so that it caught at her wrist instead of embedding into her skin. “You can do this to stop your opponent as well,” effectively blocking her knife from coming towards him, and he flipped his dagger as if he were wrapping it around her the smaller portions of her arm. Edges didn’t catch; a smooth transition, trapping her motions, her weapon. Then he pulled down, both of their arms descending, except he pushed forward, following through, into her frame, capable of striking her with the pommel of his dagger, should he push it up towards her face.
Then he backed away, throwing up his arm, intending for her to take up the new movement.
Because that’s what they were going to do – react, react, react, until they were finally somewhere, no matter how uncertain.
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
