DEIMOS
The hesitancy seemed to dissipate – he presumed she wasn’t comfortable, because that was who she was, discomfited with the notion of violence and blood splitting and spilling from veins, but there weren’t ghosts or wraiths hovering over her gaze. He would take it. That would be enough.
He missed her moment of admiration: too intent on displaying his barbaric intentions, where she would need to move and maneuver for these particular segments, placing his feet correctly, meticulously, fluid, as if it were only ingrained habits and rooted fragments pushing and pulling him into place. Sometimes it’d been the training, blistering and brilliant across fields, units coming together to perform, to ensure they knew what they were doing, how to accomplish their feats, their bloody triumphs, their monstrous inclinations. Sometimes it’d been instinct alone, trapped between blades and the ground, the breath of an enemy clambering in, persisting, pervading, until they altered the situation, the sights, the sounds.
The beast reset his stance, waited for hers to follow through – performing damaging dances and warrior waltzes, dagger caught by hers, pulled down, but she didn’t go with the next maneuver. It altered, and his brows furrowed slightly, uncertain, before she morphed and molded earlier formations into this one. “Clever,” he announced, intending to follow through on more than just his smirks and smiles, a grin dimpling into his cheek; but then the knife fell, blade on the ground. Instead, her hands were around his waist, and thought about making a quip, a joke, to settle the irresolution, but in the midst of silence there were only their bodies breathing, inhaling, exhaling, chests heaving.
She stayed there, and so did he, sheathing his dagger into his belt, lifting both hands to cover hers. Her words didn’t surprise him, not really, not in the folds of their previous maneuvers – she’d tried, and she had some notions tucked along the back of her head in case she required them. He didn’t expect her to enjoy the flourish of fighting, the quick, swift heartbeats between life, death, and how long they could avoid the harbinger of demise. He didn’t expect her to yearn to drive a blade into another’s flesh, twist, turn, until they were fallen and one was still alive – onto the next, the next, the next, a pattern worn into exhaustion, into fatigue. Keep going skulls would reverberate and echo. Keep going. If he hadn’t he’d be buried amongst his kin.
He didn’t wish that for her. He lowered his head to stare at her fingers wrapped along him, feeling her head somewhere along his shoulders and spine. “You fight in a different way.” He meandered in a smile she couldn’t see, lifting his cranium back up to stare at the garden, at the surroundings, at her innocent world he somehow managed to keep interrupting. “You have nothing to be sorry for. The kingdom does not need more barbarians.”
He missed her moment of admiration: too intent on displaying his barbaric intentions, where she would need to move and maneuver for these particular segments, placing his feet correctly, meticulously, fluid, as if it were only ingrained habits and rooted fragments pushing and pulling him into place. Sometimes it’d been the training, blistering and brilliant across fields, units coming together to perform, to ensure they knew what they were doing, how to accomplish their feats, their bloody triumphs, their monstrous inclinations. Sometimes it’d been instinct alone, trapped between blades and the ground, the breath of an enemy clambering in, persisting, pervading, until they altered the situation, the sights, the sounds.
The beast reset his stance, waited for hers to follow through – performing damaging dances and warrior waltzes, dagger caught by hers, pulled down, but she didn’t go with the next maneuver. It altered, and his brows furrowed slightly, uncertain, before she morphed and molded earlier formations into this one. “Clever,” he announced, intending to follow through on more than just his smirks and smiles, a grin dimpling into his cheek; but then the knife fell, blade on the ground. Instead, her hands were around his waist, and thought about making a quip, a joke, to settle the irresolution, but in the midst of silence there were only their bodies breathing, inhaling, exhaling, chests heaving.
She stayed there, and so did he, sheathing his dagger into his belt, lifting both hands to cover hers. Her words didn’t surprise him, not really, not in the folds of their previous maneuvers – she’d tried, and she had some notions tucked along the back of her head in case she required them. He didn’t expect her to enjoy the flourish of fighting, the quick, swift heartbeats between life, death, and how long they could avoid the harbinger of demise. He didn’t expect her to yearn to drive a blade into another’s flesh, twist, turn, until they were fallen and one was still alive – onto the next, the next, the next, a pattern worn into exhaustion, into fatigue. Keep going skulls would reverberate and echo. Keep going. If he hadn’t he’d be buried amongst his kin.
He didn’t wish that for her. He lowered his head to stare at her fingers wrapped along him, feeling her head somewhere along his shoulders and spine. “You fight in a different way.” He meandered in a smile she couldn’t see, lifting his cranium back up to stare at the garden, at the surroundings, at her innocent world he somehow managed to keep interrupting. “You have nothing to be sorry for. The kingdom does not need more barbarians.”
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
