DEIMOS
we've all got blood on our hands
something somewhere had to die
so we could stay alive
Deimos was neither judgmental, nor angry (and if he had been, Oliver wouldn’t have survived his abhorrence, his crushing contempt, or piercing, puncturing wrath). The youth had come to him for advice, and his every intention was to deliver it, from his raw experiences, from his primordial, primeval lifetimes, from his manifestations of war and belligerence and everything else locked, loaded, and in between. They were two contrasting individuals – the Sword’s granules of apprehension and consternation were usually limited to battlefield tactics, prowess, and if his family, his loved ones, were under duress, or some ominous, foretold disaster; the rest could be altered, framed, or dealt with amidst tactics, Machiavellian prosperities, or whatever else was necessary, required, to achieve the desired ends. He’d never bothered with anyone else’s speculation of himself – Deimos had always known exactly who he was. It was the future that was precarious, eroding, and incapable of understanding. So he remained just as stoic as he had been, no sudden inflections, no grumbling overtures, no sparks of derision or sedition, still continuing to try and formulate patterns of thought Oliver would understand, could utilize, would fathom. The preparation note was strange – but if Oliver was tracing over juxtapositions, correlations between one and the other, then that was unfortunate – to place himself all below them, simply due to the weight of their circumstances, their days of prior oblivion. “We have been here far longer than you. We have had more time.” More opportunities, more mistakes, more mishaps, more trials, more tribulations – Oliver was a fledgling in their midst, simply because of when the portal, the Voice, had plucked them from their other worlds. “You should not compare your growth to someone else’s. We all learn and experience things at different rates.” Some didn’t discover their abilities until some fortuitous event. Some didn’t claim a talent, an occupant, until there was a catalyst, a band of movement and motion settling it ablaze. Some tried and tried and tried, until an achievement sizzled into their hands. But none of them spent their hours bemoaning their lack of success – there hadn’t been time. He settled further against the table, leaning into the wood, arms manifested in their crossed position along his chest, a wall of strength, fortitude, and might. “And still, no one would be mad at you.”
The other man looked away and Deimos almost snorted. He waited in the midst of silence, calm and controlled, composed and contorted, living, breathing machinations and carnivore intricacies. Eventually, amidst the hushed platitudes, Oliver seemed to yield a little to the notions the General had attempted to manifest into the air – tilting his head slightly at the inquiries. “Yes.” A pause, pondering why Oliver thought another might have more sway, more say over him, why the fields needed to be completely cleared out, no one there to see – unless he yearned to maintain a furtive, specious, secret edge. “Even if someone is here. You are to free to use this place whenever you wish.” Hadn’t that been the purpose of this venue? To train? To harpoon? To unleash whatever they yearned to practice, to maintain, to uphold and behold skills?
