DEIMOS
Heave the silver hollow sliver
Joining the militia had been something paramount in his mind at a young age: admiring munitions, the scalding, blistering wake of swordplay, of fighting and pummeling one’s adversaries into the ground. His mother might have hoped for some scholarly distinction in him, and it was in roots of curiosity and sagacity, but otherwise barely noted over the roaring flames of glory, of prestige, of power. He’d always taken to witnessing his father, or anyone else moderately endeavored into soldier-hood, thought to become a warrior, a protective shield for the land and kingdom he grew within. It might’ve worked out in some capacity: because he’d done just that, but the triumph quickly faded, contorted and covered in his friends’ fallen forms, in the decaying, withering platitudes of retreats, in the roaring pulse of failure and catacombs beating well over the drums. Then it’d only been survival. Then it’d only been stillness, returning home to a world already burned and sieged to the ground. Efforts in vain. Helovia was another story altogether.
The whale and its constellations stared at him in the face as her inquiry floated past, and he shrugged, indulging the curiosity when machinations or calculations couldn’t reach it. “Sixteen.” Young and naïve, intrepid and audacious, the world telling them that fortune favored the bold. He learned only sometimes did it support anyone at all – while he ran a blade through chests, while he carried dying comrades.
Her next words though coiled a little down the back of his mind, and only because he’d lived too many other lives, once reigning along winter walls, striving and seeking out any grain of information. That Weaver grated along orders earned another snort. “I thought I would too,” but the training had been good for him, instilled routines and habits he’d continued and persisted within even now, leading into assisting those who sought out the same regards. The Sword just intended for better results. However, this didn’t alleviate the notion of the Warden gaining access to militia either, the reasons for it (same as then – defenses? Or offense?), or that someone else was behind the scenes, orchestrating in the shadows – a name most of them had come to seethe and rebel against. “Neron or Zariah?” A neutral tone, but his eyes were narrowed all the same, trained on artifacts, placing the whale amongst his collection of items in the bag.
Unite and spread the heart apart
