Deimos
THE RESURRECTED SWORD
How did you survive? they ask
How long did you suffer?
how dark did they tint your dreams?It was only about time – success after success, dying fronds and noxious fumes fading – before the world shifted, and began to descend. Death had many manifestations, outlooks, and features – and he thought, once, he’d seen them all – but the Spire itself seemed to be wilting at the seams.
The rocks fell, pilfered from the structure, and on instinct, because he’d been within caverns that had done the same, promised desecration on their way down, he bent to cover Amalia. There was no surprise at the insurmountable pain mounting behind his eyelids, a striking onslaught, an embittered tyranny, as the weight of the boulder pounded and pummeled against his left shoulder. He couldn’t hide the roar, the howl, that overtook his senses, blistered in his throat, but perhaps a greater part of it was muffled by his mask; and looking up, glancing to where everyone else was, still standing, the world maneuvered without his will, shaking his head to try and grasp anything again.
Ronin was shouting something, and between the punctures of pain, he thought he heard hold off with withering the plants; no more life drain, the essence of dissolving muses fumbling back into his figure, returning to his living stasis. He rose, shaky, opposite hand braced against his shoulder, tossing his cranium once more to try and rid himself of something. He glanced over at Amalia, mouthing all right?, no sound coming out of his chest, over his mouth.
Then the Fallen Star kept talking, and he strived, struggling to divert his attention back to the moments before everything was raw and real and scorching; more firepower, a you don’t look good directed at him; the sword, the idiot, the fool.
At least it wasn’t a fire this time.
Deimos knelt down behind the dirt shield again, mind reeling and rolling in all different motions, but the monolith used precious moments to create more torches, short sticks of wood just to assail through the air; utilizing Amalia’s torch to light them all. Rising, he passed one to anyone who could hold the wares in their grasp, yearned to make quick efforts before the gas billowed against them again. “When you are ready,” he nodded, and then with his remaining good arm, tossed his towards the still toxic plants.
Then the reddened glow of Amalia’s staff caught his eye, a distant haze of crimson searing from before, memories of failures that he dared not repeat. “Can I?” He inquired, gasping, incapable of getting the rest of the words out, thinking she’d understand the meaning, the gestures, the need; chest heaving, fingers grasping at the staff as he sought to heal from the latest wounds.
--
Deimos makes more torches, lights them using Amalia’s torch, and then gives one to each, hurling his (hopefully) in time with the others. He then uses Amalia’s staff to heal.
The rocks fell, pilfered from the structure, and on instinct, because he’d been within caverns that had done the same, promised desecration on their way down, he bent to cover Amalia. There was no surprise at the insurmountable pain mounting behind his eyelids, a striking onslaught, an embittered tyranny, as the weight of the boulder pounded and pummeled against his left shoulder. He couldn’t hide the roar, the howl, that overtook his senses, blistered in his throat, but perhaps a greater part of it was muffled by his mask; and looking up, glancing to where everyone else was, still standing, the world maneuvered without his will, shaking his head to try and grasp anything again.
Ronin was shouting something, and between the punctures of pain, he thought he heard hold off with withering the plants; no more life drain, the essence of dissolving muses fumbling back into his figure, returning to his living stasis. He rose, shaky, opposite hand braced against his shoulder, tossing his cranium once more to try and rid himself of something. He glanced over at Amalia, mouthing all right?, no sound coming out of his chest, over his mouth.
Then the Fallen Star kept talking, and he strived, struggling to divert his attention back to the moments before everything was raw and real and scorching; more firepower, a you don’t look good directed at him; the sword, the idiot, the fool.
At least it wasn’t a fire this time.
Deimos knelt down behind the dirt shield again, mind reeling and rolling in all different motions, but the monolith used precious moments to create more torches, short sticks of wood just to assail through the air; utilizing Amalia’s torch to light them all. Rising, he passed one to anyone who could hold the wares in their grasp, yearned to make quick efforts before the gas billowed against them again. “When you are ready,” he nodded, and then with his remaining good arm, tossed his towards the still toxic plants.
Then the reddened glow of Amalia’s staff caught his eye, a distant haze of crimson searing from before, memories of failures that he dared not repeat. “Can I?” He inquired, gasping, incapable of getting the rest of the words out, thinking she’d understand the meaning, the gestures, the need; chest heaving, fingers grasping at the staff as he sought to heal from the latest wounds.
--
Deimos makes more torches, lights them using Amalia’s torch, and then gives one to each, hurling his (hopefully) in time with the others. He then uses Amalia’s staff to heal.
- 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
