DEIMOS
He’d lived too many lives in too many different worlds to be overwhelmed. Things were fresh and new and foreign, but not all at once. Because he’d been within, ruled, kingdoms like this before, relished the sea ice, the tides, the beckoning grandeur of prominences, pinnacles, and ranges before them – wanted to share the experience, wanted to bite into its cold, glacial expanse. It wasn’t the Basin. It wasn’t the Moonlit Tides. It was something borne from the chill, the rime, and the wonder; in all its cruelty and majesty, no doubt, no uncertainty plaguing him. It was a restless wanton conflagration draped and drenched within his sanction – his figure alight on the whims of the monstrous, chilling eaves, bestial vibes awakened, emerging, from any fortified cocoon he’d held, contained, himself amongst and amidst: alive, alive, alive.He wondered briefly, in the excitement, in the thrall, in the tempest rising along his heart, if he was asking too much, daring too far; could feel Amalia’s anxiety and apprehension, no matter how much she strived to quell it, beating against them like a drum. He’d yearned to share it with her – those traces, those foundations, of a sovereignty he and Kiada had long since left behind (not by choice; his demise, and Helovia’s collapse) – but maybe it was too much, and the selfish employ burrowed and dug into their ramparts. The Sword yielded, diminishing, billowing away fragments of excitement, the peeling of delight, saving it, storing it, breathing, stoking a calm, composed stature, feeding it into the connections, the bonds, a fortification of strength, might, and resilience. Always. Ready.
Which way? Yielding to their wishes, to their discretions, to the land of shelled-ice down below, floating above the surface, to the water’s edge, furtive fringes and boundaries resting beneath, or to the mountains themselves, beckoning, beckoning, beckoning?
--
Where to?
"who's gonna let you?"
they asked. i said
"who's gonna stop me?"
