Deimos
THE RESURRECTED SWORD
How did you survive? they ask
How long did you suffer?
how dark did they tint your dreams?The open sky beckoned, beatific rapture in the sun, in the gaze of the horizon, blue and blue and blue, not stone, not rubble, not venom – but there was only one pair of footsteps behind him – one, one, one Amalia, and it was just enough to make him breathe slightly easier, no matter how the poisons seeped into his lungs, clawed at his throat.
But then – why weren’t there more? Where are they? curled and coiled in his mind, a vicious cycle of apprehension, frustration, and consternation he had to push down, had to smother, beneath the wiles and machinations of a war-torn abyss. This was a battlefield, and he had no intentions of burying comrades, allies, friends, anytime soon. We had a plan surged against his clenched jaw, against his silent tirades – but it didn’t really matter, not here, not now. There wasn’t time to dwell.
The beast, the heathen, the sword turned around immediately, listening, staring, daring for them to clamber up the steps, only a little behind, only a few paces, a clawing tirade brandishing itself along his chest, intertwining along his soul, his core, his entity, when the crashing rubble ricocheted and resounded from below.
He ran, glancing only backwards at Amalia, at Ronin, to ensure they were following because there were no spare moments, not when they could be buried, not when lions and wolves were beneath ruin. Zuriel followed, the enigmatic cast, the glow of her horn, pervading and persisting, striving to heal them all, more and more, before they plunged back down, before more strength and fortitude were required.
Deimos leaned down, at the crumbling wake, and knew it wouldn’t support his figure, his brawn, his physique. So calculations spiraled, glancing back and forth between walls and stairs, between steps and the open world, between those left and those scattered. “I am going to make a pulley system,” he intoned, after a space of silent thoughts, expressed outwardly now, piercing gaze traversing from one to the other, then his fingers were pulling apart his bag, fishing out the rope he’d brought. “When you go down,” because he knew, he understood, without a shadow of a doubt, what they intended to do, an unsaid proclamation, “take the rope. Loop it around either of them, or a rock you cannot move, and I will pull them up.” It was too risky for them to be carried – unless either Remi or Ashe shifted into something lighter; and would they have the capacity to do so, buried and wounded?
His hands fixated on Amalia’s gas mask, adjusting it, and then shifted again, a glow in his palms as he began forming a stake, pushing it down into the ground, a swiveling pulley at its center, churning the rope through – handing the end to them. Be careful was another implicit sentiment, but they didn’t have the seconds for that either.
----
Zuriel tries to heal them. Deimos creates a pulley system to pull up Ashe or Remi, when Amalia/Ronin go down to find them (or to tie on a heavier rock) so he can lift them up. He hands them the rope.
But then – why weren’t there more? Where are they? curled and coiled in his mind, a vicious cycle of apprehension, frustration, and consternation he had to push down, had to smother, beneath the wiles and machinations of a war-torn abyss. This was a battlefield, and he had no intentions of burying comrades, allies, friends, anytime soon. We had a plan surged against his clenched jaw, against his silent tirades – but it didn’t really matter, not here, not now. There wasn’t time to dwell.
The beast, the heathen, the sword turned around immediately, listening, staring, daring for them to clamber up the steps, only a little behind, only a few paces, a clawing tirade brandishing itself along his chest, intertwining along his soul, his core, his entity, when the crashing rubble ricocheted and resounded from below.
He ran, glancing only backwards at Amalia, at Ronin, to ensure they were following because there were no spare moments, not when they could be buried, not when lions and wolves were beneath ruin. Zuriel followed, the enigmatic cast, the glow of her horn, pervading and persisting, striving to heal them all, more and more, before they plunged back down, before more strength and fortitude were required.
Deimos leaned down, at the crumbling wake, and knew it wouldn’t support his figure, his brawn, his physique. So calculations spiraled, glancing back and forth between walls and stairs, between steps and the open world, between those left and those scattered. “I am going to make a pulley system,” he intoned, after a space of silent thoughts, expressed outwardly now, piercing gaze traversing from one to the other, then his fingers were pulling apart his bag, fishing out the rope he’d brought. “When you go down,” because he knew, he understood, without a shadow of a doubt, what they intended to do, an unsaid proclamation, “take the rope. Loop it around either of them, or a rock you cannot move, and I will pull them up.” It was too risky for them to be carried – unless either Remi or Ashe shifted into something lighter; and would they have the capacity to do so, buried and wounded?
His hands fixated on Amalia’s gas mask, adjusting it, and then shifted again, a glow in his palms as he began forming a stake, pushing it down into the ground, a swiveling pulley at its center, churning the rope through – handing the end to them. Be careful was another implicit sentiment, but they didn’t have the seconds for that either.
----
Zuriel tries to heal them. Deimos creates a pulley system to pull up Ashe or Remi, when Amalia/Ronin go down to find them (or to tie on a heavier rock) so he can lift them up. He hands them the rope.
- 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
