DEIMOS
Perhaps military and munitions training aided him here, in the strands of twilight and dusk, between boughs and branches seeking to embed and entangle themselves in feathers, in plumes, like gnarled hands, fingers, and bones. He’d always been entirely conscious and mindful of his form, of his figure, of where power undulated, where precision could preside, where he could bludgeon and lend scruples to movements – his massive size lacking the darting ability to smaller, more compact soldiers. So he’d trained. So he’d practiced. So he’d manifested extension of limbs and arms to impact a broader area, to snatch and snare and grab at those daring to harpoon at him. It was no different now – applying his efforts into (truly) bestial movements, redefining and understanding his shape, how far he could push, how long he could reach, how much was too much, or simply not enough. The Reaper knew himself as a demonic entity, a blistering, scorching carcass, a vessel, a means to so many ends. The Sword knew himself as a soldier, as a warrior, and now, as an eagle, some noble, honorable factions bestowed in the breadth of his chest, in the lines of his wings.Amalia was above; a pale mantle, a moon, a sun, beacons and beckoning ivory curling amidst canopies and higher, ethereal Elysiums (where she was always meant to be, amongst and midst the stars, the heavens while he strangled himself in purgatory). The laughter buoyed and buffeted along his system, light and extended, amusement and diversions like age-old things, as if they had always been there, familiar and warm, despite the nuances and barbaric regard constantly haunting. Outside this world of play and entertainment was the harsh, bristling reality, and he preferred to stay here for now, in the comfort of devotion and accord, neither struck down by the other, tranquility and serenity in their devilish antics; capable of impish qualities and iniquities without the unrelenting, ruthless omens rustling beyond. He stayed, and didn’t erode, didn’t wilt, didn’t decay – whole and fresh and new and blinking into the unknown without growling, without resisting, without planting roots around his feet.
Finally, he reached the canopy again, bursting from dying, fading leaves, the depths of the season long since settled, winter’s chill clinging to his plumage and instigating movement – he rose, but not simply, turning and turning and turning. It was a dizzying but amusing effect, much like when he was a boy, meandering and twisting his way down the tides’ shoreline, laughing and falling into the sand.
Except, he didn’t fall now – didn’t cascade, didn’t plummet, didn’t falter, didn’t stumble. Even that was intoxicating, tempting, and inveigling, the precious, precarious thought that he could continue flying, up, up, and up until the atmosphere ended and stilled.
Her trill resounded, and his avian skull twisted to glance in her direction, barreling through the air, and they reveled together for a few seconds, an interval of ascension, air, and untouchable depths, his heart like thunder, grating entertainment rumbling through their connection. She darted and spun and wove her elegant ministrations, fully conscious of her grandstanding. Braggart he molded with obvious teasing and taunting, blue eyes watching, appreciating, incapable of commanding the same efforts, not now, not yet.
Then her talons finally brushed, a caress, a stroke, with talons instead of hands, and she dove once more – leaving him behind for a grove, and he followed, wings alight and hovering, gliding on cool winds and frigid breezes, breathing, inhaling, exhaling, alive in the frenzy and fervor. Daring, she lowered herself to linger over the veneer of the Oasis, and he witnessed the ripples waving from her essence, her presence circumventing the glassy fixtures. The Sword brushed low too, over the wake, lowering his talons to graze and pierce the texture, at home in the water either as man or beast – but thought about changing the game, altering its sanction.
He lowered his legs as far as much as he sought to provoke – then whipped them upwards, so there was still a satisfying amount of cascading, darting, showering droplets, intending to splash her with the Oasis’s essence, not enough to soak, but just enough to be shocking, startling, divesting.
"who's gonna let you?"
they asked. i said
"who's gonna stop me?"
