Deimos
THE RESURRECTED SWORD
How did you survive? they ask
How long did you suffer?
how dark did they tint your dreams?“Yes,” he answered; no more profound, but another easy promise when all of these colossal, monumental things seemed to seethe apart or become solved (until the next, then the next). Swimming was an escape into power and potency, blending and lending souls into a world amassed in its own blinding prestige; embarking, twisting and turning in its hold. There were no queens or kings snarling along their thrones, no rules, a liberation along its own terms, freedom from land, from the grueling fault lines, from ambitious knives, from blighted aspirations. It was endless and eternal, rough and gentle, all depending on which coil one’s form, one’s figure, was swept within – laden and laced with respect for an authority far greater. It wasn’t faith, not like the gods, not like the deities, but ability, strength, and convictions, learning roles and capacities in the undulation of waves, of currents, of seas.
His smile remained while she twirled and spun, along her laughter (and how long has it been since they’d all chuckled, been amused, diverted, not hollowed but hallowed?), tilting his head in study, arm continuing its extension and movements, contorting her into coils of motion and glee – reeling back into him when her rotations and revolutions were complete. That was when he breathed, long and low, intentionally sighing so her hair fluttered, spinning back into the wind. Everything else has been about catching falling voids and crashing into patterns of failures – and he was determined not to keep doing it, striving to avoid the pitfalls and nuances again and again and again –
Her head rested on his shoulder, a tilt of her chin indicating some aura of mischief he couldn’t fathom, ignorant and unknown towards the details – his life a myriad of calculations foreign to this world. This realm seemed to enjoy taunting him in his ignorance; once he believed he understood and comprehended gestures, seasons, and cycles, something else reared its head and he was bewildered, confused, and surprised, repeating the inquiries, the questions, like a fool, like a dunce. For a second or two, the Sword thought the Shield was teasing him; but you could be dangling on a thread.
The thing was – he didn’t want to give up magic or incantations, the invocations curling through his skin, flesh, and bone. The deadly machinations were a part of him as owl feathers and leopard fur were a portion of her existence: he’d never been without their dastardly wake, their foul touch, their humming, crooning, breathing irreverence. Is that what she was asking of him? He didn’t know – and while her eyes were vibrant, his narrowed, speculation raw and uncertainty prevailing. “What do you mean?” His thoughts weren’t on those who had both; despite knowing several individuals who harbored and harpooned both reaches: shifting and enchantments.
He’d never even believed himself capable of anything other than destruction.
His smile remained while she twirled and spun, along her laughter (and how long has it been since they’d all chuckled, been amused, diverted, not hollowed but hallowed?), tilting his head in study, arm continuing its extension and movements, contorting her into coils of motion and glee – reeling back into him when her rotations and revolutions were complete. That was when he breathed, long and low, intentionally sighing so her hair fluttered, spinning back into the wind. Everything else has been about catching falling voids and crashing into patterns of failures – and he was determined not to keep doing it, striving to avoid the pitfalls and nuances again and again and again –
Her head rested on his shoulder, a tilt of her chin indicating some aura of mischief he couldn’t fathom, ignorant and unknown towards the details – his life a myriad of calculations foreign to this world. This realm seemed to enjoy taunting him in his ignorance; once he believed he understood and comprehended gestures, seasons, and cycles, something else reared its head and he was bewildered, confused, and surprised, repeating the inquiries, the questions, like a fool, like a dunce. For a second or two, the Sword thought the Shield was teasing him; but you could be dangling on a thread.
The thing was – he didn’t want to give up magic or incantations, the invocations curling through his skin, flesh, and bone. The deadly machinations were a part of him as owl feathers and leopard fur were a portion of her existence: he’d never been without their dastardly wake, their foul touch, their humming, crooning, breathing irreverence. Is that what she was asking of him? He didn’t know – and while her eyes were vibrant, his narrowed, speculation raw and uncertainty prevailing. “What do you mean?” His thoughts weren’t on those who had both; despite knowing several individuals who harbored and harpooned both reaches: shifting and enchantments.
He’d never even believed himself capable of anything other than destruction.
- 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
