Deimos
THE RESURRECTED SWORD
How did you survive? they ask
How long did you suffer?
how dark did they tint your dreams?Maybe he simply didn’t want to turn back into dust, again, without something to his name; more than Sword, more than Reaper, more than one other figure in the wilds. Once, he might’ve been a tower, a monolith, a Colossus with his silence and stony fixtures, a piece of marble, carved out of abhorrence and contempt, promises of bloodshed from the shadows. Now he stood precariously along every precipice with the rest of the fold, striving for clarity beyond their reach, attempting to battle the unknown. At least in the Basin, in Helovia, in Isilme, he knew exactly what their enemies were like – the same as them, twisting and turning back into foils, yearning to keep their lands, their artifacts, their inhabitants safe, their avaricious grasps clawing, tugging, for terrain, for prestige, for power.
Here, they fight against a disease that bites back with fervor, and monsters that linger in the Stygian voids, coming alive only to feast upon bones on crisp, chilling evenings, thriving on ignorance and futility.
So he fought against the rush of damnation slinking over his spine, the murmurs of the past, of yesteryears, stretching over his foundations (not enough, not enough, not enough), maneuvering along the embankment again, mindless motions, fluid, exacted and replicated a hundred times before, as the battle of his own demons waged and burned. It would be so easy, so simple, to sink back into his bitterness, into his rancor, into dwelling amidst the contorted abyss, simmering in the ashes – but it would also be empty, leading him nowhere but backwards.
The warrior lifted his head to the skies at the first familiar call of low keens and soft, whale song, expecting Jyoti’s essence in the air, welcome and enticing when all he’d wanted to do was hang his skull and drift hellbound. The hums were igniting, enlightening, a better, soothing, assuaging effort than he’d ever be able to conduct, the wisps of a smile curling over his lips with little hesitation as the companion lingered along his head. Out of habit, his arms and hands stretched out to greet her, with a light pat, a scratch, while he was emblazoned with stardust.
Then she floated off, towards Zuriel – the unicorn’s cranium lifted sharply, away from her riveted notions on the glow stones, proffering a light nicker in greeting, then gesturing wildly at the rocks again.
And he was left with silence, then plumes, feathers, unraveling and shifting, owl turned woman; unearthly and ethereal, Mr. Shade poised from her lips. His mouth had already turned into a greater grin, maneuvering to meet her, the coy glance enough to entice, palms, hands, and arms softly wrapping around her waist, her navel, pulling her into him. He thought at first to rest his head on her shoulders, but realized she already carried enough, and placed his chin on top of her gilded crown, mischievous and devilish as the glow of the sun threatened to fade.
Maybe it wasn’t fair to have these moments, these instances, where hearts and minds could rest, but he’d always been greedy, always been selfish, always been wanton for everything and anything; and he would rather tell a tale than sink into the murk of their own making. The last intervals they’d had in the glade, besides songs with the bard, had been coaxing Luxere, his stanzas and lyrics whittled from drunken exploits, ivory tents shrouded in victorious depths – shattered the next day. But theirs had been better, glowing deer and stares, before, before, before - he’d gladly do it again. “A story,” he murmured at first, voice and chest rumbling against her, reverberations calm, composed, grin dimpling his cheeks. “There was once a boy born beside the ocean, who would race along the waves and tides all day long. The rest of the children in the kingdom would gather on the shores alongside him, swim, laugh, and play until the moon was lit and their parents called them home.” The story itself was meaningless, just a passing moment in time that he could recall and remember, but simple, better times, better days.
“His mother always warned him not to chase the gulls. So, whenever she was not looking, he would instigate a challenge. ‘Who could catch one?’ he would holler, and they would try until exhaustion drove them to lie on the sands.” He paused, blue eyes looking out over the glade and visualizing the sea, the rolling currents, the depths and fathoms of things no longer there. “The gulls were smarter than the children, and would sit on the waves, far, far out from the shore. Even if they were strong swimmers, they knew better than to risk life and limb, had heard the legends of the tides and their vengeance.” Eventually, they’d outgrown the myths; but not that hour. “One day, the boy’s father seemed troubled and vexed. He had not laughed in what felt like ages.” Ignatius had always been bold, boisterous, and exuberant: politics might’ve had a hand in his mood, dire, pending consequences coiling over fire and fury. “So he believed he would catch a gull for his father. He went out in the early morning, and found a fledgling, not yet experienced in avoiding wild children, and pounced.” Deimos waited, amused, seeing if she would become curious in the absence of his continuation, or simply linger, ready for the ridiculous narrative to be over.
“The gull bit him, left him bleeding, and the entire crowd of kids began laughing. His father had joined them, on a hunch, and was amidst the clamor too.” Stone had been amongst the unimpressed; but he’d shrugged off the pain for the glory of his father’s smile, the grin that wouldn’t come again for some time.
The saga finished and curtailed, silly and stupid, and ended on his sigh, breath curling and coiling before him. “Your turn.”
Here, they fight against a disease that bites back with fervor, and monsters that linger in the Stygian voids, coming alive only to feast upon bones on crisp, chilling evenings, thriving on ignorance and futility.
So he fought against the rush of damnation slinking over his spine, the murmurs of the past, of yesteryears, stretching over his foundations (not enough, not enough, not enough), maneuvering along the embankment again, mindless motions, fluid, exacted and replicated a hundred times before, as the battle of his own demons waged and burned. It would be so easy, so simple, to sink back into his bitterness, into his rancor, into dwelling amidst the contorted abyss, simmering in the ashes – but it would also be empty, leading him nowhere but backwards.
The warrior lifted his head to the skies at the first familiar call of low keens and soft, whale song, expecting Jyoti’s essence in the air, welcome and enticing when all he’d wanted to do was hang his skull and drift hellbound. The hums were igniting, enlightening, a better, soothing, assuaging effort than he’d ever be able to conduct, the wisps of a smile curling over his lips with little hesitation as the companion lingered along his head. Out of habit, his arms and hands stretched out to greet her, with a light pat, a scratch, while he was emblazoned with stardust.
Then she floated off, towards Zuriel – the unicorn’s cranium lifted sharply, away from her riveted notions on the glow stones, proffering a light nicker in greeting, then gesturing wildly at the rocks again.
And he was left with silence, then plumes, feathers, unraveling and shifting, owl turned woman; unearthly and ethereal, Mr. Shade poised from her lips. His mouth had already turned into a greater grin, maneuvering to meet her, the coy glance enough to entice, palms, hands, and arms softly wrapping around her waist, her navel, pulling her into him. He thought at first to rest his head on her shoulders, but realized she already carried enough, and placed his chin on top of her gilded crown, mischievous and devilish as the glow of the sun threatened to fade.
Maybe it wasn’t fair to have these moments, these instances, where hearts and minds could rest, but he’d always been greedy, always been selfish, always been wanton for everything and anything; and he would rather tell a tale than sink into the murk of their own making. The last intervals they’d had in the glade, besides songs with the bard, had been coaxing Luxere, his stanzas and lyrics whittled from drunken exploits, ivory tents shrouded in victorious depths – shattered the next day. But theirs had been better, glowing deer and stares, before, before, before - he’d gladly do it again. “A story,” he murmured at first, voice and chest rumbling against her, reverberations calm, composed, grin dimpling his cheeks. “There was once a boy born beside the ocean, who would race along the waves and tides all day long. The rest of the children in the kingdom would gather on the shores alongside him, swim, laugh, and play until the moon was lit and their parents called them home.” The story itself was meaningless, just a passing moment in time that he could recall and remember, but simple, better times, better days.
“His mother always warned him not to chase the gulls. So, whenever she was not looking, he would instigate a challenge. ‘Who could catch one?’ he would holler, and they would try until exhaustion drove them to lie on the sands.” He paused, blue eyes looking out over the glade and visualizing the sea, the rolling currents, the depths and fathoms of things no longer there. “The gulls were smarter than the children, and would sit on the waves, far, far out from the shore. Even if they were strong swimmers, they knew better than to risk life and limb, had heard the legends of the tides and their vengeance.” Eventually, they’d outgrown the myths; but not that hour. “One day, the boy’s father seemed troubled and vexed. He had not laughed in what felt like ages.” Ignatius had always been bold, boisterous, and exuberant: politics might’ve had a hand in his mood, dire, pending consequences coiling over fire and fury. “So he believed he would catch a gull for his father. He went out in the early morning, and found a fledgling, not yet experienced in avoiding wild children, and pounced.” Deimos waited, amused, seeing if she would become curious in the absence of his continuation, or simply linger, ready for the ridiculous narrative to be over.
“The gull bit him, left him bleeding, and the entire crowd of kids began laughing. His father had joined them, on a hunch, and was amidst the clamor too.” Stone had been amongst the unimpressed; but he’d shrugged off the pain for the glory of his father’s smile, the grin that wouldn’t come again for some time.
The saga finished and curtailed, silly and stupid, and ended on his sigh, breath curling and coiling before him. “Your turn.”
- 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
