DEIMOS
He didn’t lead, not now, in the parameters of the unknown, when the thresholds were too new, too foreign, collecting over the back of his mind, resuming in his flesh and bones, marrow and tissues, every experience strange and beguiling. But he sketched artifices and amusement in the water, skimming lightly along its veneer (talons painting promises) when he wasn’t splashing, cajoling, inviting, and enticing more rogue demeanors and mischief, desperate for anything but devastation and demolition (again and again; striving to rework the patterns, the cycles, so they didn’t stifle him, so they didn’t swallow him whole). If it broke the peace and repose, he was mildly apologetic, never quite capable of staying along its threshold for long – the serenity always a precarious uncertainty, his frame, his figure, his mind, too busy with intervals of disaster to assume tranquility would be presiding in a lengthy stature.But they’d been christened and anointed in bounds of mischief and mayhem; couldn’t be away from it, play and entertainment and musings to keep them upright and sure, pulsing and unwavering in his breath, in his form. There were no ambitions now except to consecrate where they’d started: not falling here, in caves or forest warrens, in Spires and seething fights, in underground rebellions, in smoldering edges. Instead, they would rise and cajole, reform, come back whole, stronger, better, than where they’d started.
The disgruntlement spiraled through their connection, and he contorted a smug, superior murmur, awaiting rebuttal; he knew better than to believe she’d accept a new tactic without her own machinations behind it. They’d done the same with dances and bombardments, with love and devotion and ardor; water wouldn’t be any different.
Devilry conspired; blue eyes narrowing, the rest of his form hovering, waiting, one of her wings dipping into the surface, and he could see where the rest of it was going – a deluge of her own piercing and wavering back onto his form. The chill conspired in his chest and billowed in a singular shake, a beast from the mountains, not totally impacted by the claws of cold. A wild, ravenous chuckle blasted through him, and then he was off again: their story woven in pairs, in rounds, rotations, and patterns, how far one pushed, how far one persisted, enduring, enduring, enduring. On a daring move, perhaps emboldened simply because he’d yet to master all aspects of flight, he dipped forward and thought to bend both wings into the water and swung upwards, nearly tipping himself over in the process – so it only ended up being a light motion of droplets sent back to her, a grumble in his wake. Better. You must be better.
"who's gonna let you?"
they asked. i said
"who's gonna stop me?"
