DEIMOS
Deimos remained as he was; eagle, conformed to his tawny, sienna feathers, piercing eyes shifting towards the horizon, taking in the sights, the sounds, from different angles, from the tower’s reaches instead of drifting amongst the sky, the clouds, or the stars. In his human form he might’ve arched a brow at Adam’s antics, but he was hardly surprised. It seemed fitting for the fool to want to leap as a human, taking his chances at the bottom, rampaging to a certain death until the last moment. The Reaper had already died once, and was in no rush to do it again.
So his talons clicked against the walls and stones, the lining of minarets and spire’s, extending his wings, an obvious voluntarily means – head high and proud and noble, before launching, plummeting, and descending.
(If he happened to catch Adam on the back of his head with one of his wings, so be it.)
It was an entanglement of everything he’d done before: Safrin dropping him from constellations, snapping through boughs and branches while Kiada pursued him during the blight, hurtling himself down and down and down with a zealous rush, a tremendous force and speed. In other figures it would’ve been maddening, and in this one strangely comforting, an extension of the audacity and boldness still there, beneath too many other experiences, trials, and tribulations. Careening, swift, fast, and sure, no uncertainty in the way the breeze threaded through his feathers, in the way the wind whipped at his senses. The world was tilted and flew by, until it was just him and the sky, the whirls of blue, the contortions of liberation, of freedom, of deliverance he’d once asked the celestial beings for. Inward strength and conviction, amongst plights of would-be terror and distortion – and within a breath, before the ground whipped and stole, he circled, slowed, and touched down upon the ground, waiting for the others.
"who's gonna let you?"
they asked. i said
"who's gonna stop me?"
