DEIMOS
The comfortable atmosphere seemed to linger back into the stead – the doldrums quantified and misshapen, reforming into something else; her fingers lingering on his chest, head twisting back over his shoulder to try and peer at her. “You seem very preoccupied with my beard.” Insinuations about whether he was barbarian, knight, or a combination thereof would have to wait – she’d managed to sidle around while tending to the longer strands – he did roll his eyes at those notions and strived to pull away before she braided and chorded them into neat little sections.
But then they were together again, and he could breathe, stagnant for a few seconds, piecing and fitting into their molds; the seditious and the pious, the sword and the shield. Their eyes met and he simply stared, taking everything for what it was worth, the impassioned endeavors, the trials and errors, the way they always tried despite modicums of differences and altered comparisons.
Then she wavered and waved into the grass, maybe you can show me on the air, on the lingering eaves, on the garden and its wares – and for a moment he thought about not doing so and denying her the sight. Perhaps it’d be too violent, and she’d shy away from him, afraid of his capabilities, of the only way he knew how to paint brushstrokes on canvas (blood on battlefields; streaks of ichor on dust, dirt, and soil). Perhaps it wouldn’t be enough, and she’d think him unworthy again, somehow, someway. Perhaps it was a test he couldn’t fathom or understand. Perhaps she really just wanted to see what he could do –
The calculations sputtered and waned in his mind, eyes ghosting away from her and over to the rest of their makeshift arena – hands raised in an assemblage of incantations as a target formed before him. “It will not be the same as a true adversary,” he intoned and warned, as if to ready her for disappointment – not a real, tangible show of power and dominion, of weapons, of weight, of might. This one couldn’t fight back. This one couldn’t pierce through him. This one could be defeated with no soldier distinction.
But he attempted anyway – not even bothering to step back, practicing the fluid movements he’d gone over with her, except there was naught to guard, so the prestige and prowess were in muscle memory, in rippling flesh, in undulating sinew. The warrior, the soldier, came back within a moment, eyes dark and fixated on his impending victim, the target’s demise hinted at through his quick, swift motions: the sudden slashes along its neck, down its torso, and across its stomach. The stuffing peeled out of it quickly, and when he stepped back to survey the damage, he merely shrugged, gaze roaming back to hers – waiting for something (expecting fear; hoping for approval).
But then they were together again, and he could breathe, stagnant for a few seconds, piecing and fitting into their molds; the seditious and the pious, the sword and the shield. Their eyes met and he simply stared, taking everything for what it was worth, the impassioned endeavors, the trials and errors, the way they always tried despite modicums of differences and altered comparisons.
Then she wavered and waved into the grass, maybe you can show me on the air, on the lingering eaves, on the garden and its wares – and for a moment he thought about not doing so and denying her the sight. Perhaps it’d be too violent, and she’d shy away from him, afraid of his capabilities, of the only way he knew how to paint brushstrokes on canvas (blood on battlefields; streaks of ichor on dust, dirt, and soil). Perhaps it wouldn’t be enough, and she’d think him unworthy again, somehow, someway. Perhaps it was a test he couldn’t fathom or understand. Perhaps she really just wanted to see what he could do –
The calculations sputtered and waned in his mind, eyes ghosting away from her and over to the rest of their makeshift arena – hands raised in an assemblage of incantations as a target formed before him. “It will not be the same as a true adversary,” he intoned and warned, as if to ready her for disappointment – not a real, tangible show of power and dominion, of weapons, of weight, of might. This one couldn’t fight back. This one couldn’t pierce through him. This one could be defeated with no soldier distinction.
But he attempted anyway – not even bothering to step back, practicing the fluid movements he’d gone over with her, except there was naught to guard, so the prestige and prowess were in muscle memory, in rippling flesh, in undulating sinew. The warrior, the soldier, came back within a moment, eyes dark and fixated on his impending victim, the target’s demise hinted at through his quick, swift motions: the sudden slashes along its neck, down its torso, and across its stomach. The stuffing peeled out of it quickly, and when he stepped back to survey the damage, he merely shrugged, gaze roaming back to hers – waiting for something (expecting fear; hoping for approval).
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
