DEIMOS
Becoming Attuned hadn’t been a secret – just one of the many things he didn’t invoke or shape into the atmosphere, spread amongst the fathoms of news and gossip circulating through day by day. He kept himself tethered and lined, an assemblage of reticence even amidst the pride, the same as always, never stoking or stroking an ego. The only one who knew was Amalia, because the baker had waited for his presence to drift down on clouds and dust – only the day after everything had spiraled, fettered, and twisted apart, cycling back into destruction, demolition, and mayhem, friends torn asunder. What would his alterations have mattered, in the grand scheme of things, in the ongoing dilemmas, in the turns and revolutions of blighted friends and chained nuances? What would it showcase? What could it call forth? So he’d gone about his duty, tended to plants and flowers, watched as cherished brethren altered further and further into a demonic wake. He’d watched the Harpy, from a distance, all but shattered against Remi’s manticore emblems and banners. He’d called to her, and it didn’t do a damn thing.
Because he couldn’t accomplish anything.
But the beast could guard, could protect, could uphold some sacred vow emblazoned in his chest, compelled, instigated, invoked into these series of movements. He waited in the darkness, senses plucked and gathered in his sights, and only had the briefest second to hear a quiet descent –
A flash of talons, aiming for him, him, him.
And he knew those claws, those munitions, felt it in his hesitation, in his abrupt, jerky movements, not the soldier now, but an eagle confused, muddled, puzzled, perplexed as the conditions of pestilence severed and sizzled. Kiada, he called out to her in one keen bellow from their forged connections, enough. He swerved to the right, wings spread out, descending in a feral plummet, uncertain about how or why or when, but the boundaries of his nefarious heart were cracking, and he couldn’t fathom, couldn’t understand, the measures of her hate, the ferocity of her savagery, when they’d never been to such blows. What had he done to become just another victim in her plaguing bouts?
You are nothing the world hissed again.
He would mock and he would tease, but he’d also protect her with his life. Something about these moments carved far deeper than others; her weaponry rankled over his plumage and pierced into flesh. He didn’t scream or screech out, but continued his dive, hissing away at the searing pain glimpsing over his back. His talons still clutched the stalk of thorns.
Maybe, he considered. It had seemed to work for them at the Spire, and he twisted back around, striving to come from behind her presence, intending to puncture, to pierce with nettles – and not orchestrating the same brutality he faced.
"who's gonna let you?"
they asked. i said
"who's gonna stop me?"
