Deimos
THE RESURRECTED SWORD
How did you survive? they ask
How long did you suffer?
how dark did they tint your dreams?Quiet determination and the sense of unease flickered and filtered back to him; Ashe the most ardent, fervent, and he swallowed down the smile threatening to barrel over his lips at her confidence, at her convictions. Someone had to have them – and he thought to root his ambitions there, to figure this out, to devastate, to destroy, to eradicate the mess contorting over their frameworks, their livelihoods, their people. His eyes ghosted over Remi, hushed too, Ronin with his murmurs about stairs, and then Amalia. Jyoti settled on his shoulders before going to the baker’s, a gentle croon, less singsong and more soothing, more assuaging, and they were bent and broken things again.
But trying. They were trying. They were doing something other than wallowing, other than staring into the abyss.
His stare segmented on her staff, a portion of what kept him alive on the last journey. He hoped it would serve her well; and then segmented his gaze to Zuriel, a nod, a confirmation, as she stood beside Isla, a proud little bob of her head in response.
Then he hastened the gas mask over his face, covering his features, his nose, his mouth, picked everything back up again, the weapons at his belt, the bag on his back, the burdens on his spine, the magic at his fingertips, malicious and brooding, gliding within his veins.
Ready they announced and proclaimed.
So he said nothing (everything had already been mustered, proclaimed, on the edges of their apprehension, on the sizzling notes of their determination), and led the way down the stairs, back into venom and the unknown, stepping onto rubble and stone, picking up ashes along the way.
--
Head on down the stairs!
Amalia Remi Ronin Ashetta
But trying. They were trying. They were doing something other than wallowing, other than staring into the abyss.
His stare segmented on her staff, a portion of what kept him alive on the last journey. He hoped it would serve her well; and then segmented his gaze to Zuriel, a nod, a confirmation, as she stood beside Isla, a proud little bob of her head in response.
Then he hastened the gas mask over his face, covering his features, his nose, his mouth, picked everything back up again, the weapons at his belt, the bag on his back, the burdens on his spine, the magic at his fingertips, malicious and brooding, gliding within his veins.
Ready they announced and proclaimed.
So he said nothing (everything had already been mustered, proclaimed, on the edges of their apprehension, on the sizzling notes of their determination), and led the way down the stairs, back into venom and the unknown, stepping onto rubble and stone, picking up ashes along the way.
--
Head on down the stairs!
- until you had blood glistening on your teeth
- until your suffering paled in comparison to their own
- until you learned to enjoy the sounds of screams
