Deimos
THE RESURRECTED SWORD
How did you survive? they ask
How long did you suffer?
how dark did they tint your dreams?Small measures amongst the circumstances, nothing he could count as a success: Coffee in his grasp, the barrier holding – everything else behind it, beyond it, incapable of grabbing onto. Had Amalia asked, the Sword surely would’ve tried to snag Peter and Adam in the same way, in rivulets and streams, against far, far better judgment. Perhaps it was just as well that she didn’t – the echoes and reverberations shattering through their skulls was enough of a warning that none of them would make it out alive if they didn’t heed its calls.
Then, there was only silence.
The finality, the weight, the tangible grips of it all pushed and pummeled into him, and the Sword remained numb in those scales and fortitudes, in age-old abilities to freeze his emotions, his feelings (and would’ve been better, to never have regained those capabilities at all?) when death stoked and surrounded. Later. They could fall apart later.
There was no time now.
Zuriel had tucked herself away, trying to heal her own wounded, battered frame, and his eyes passed from her to everything else. The weight of silence from Amalia told him all he needed to know for the moment – passing Coffee over to Sunjata without a word, portions of him shuddering and shivering from the icy denizens raging near them. But he raced, he and Zuriel ran just the same, snagging at the baker's otter form, holding her tightly in his arms, and advancing from where they’d once been. They needed to go. They needed to flee. Grab the shield he uttered to Sunjata through bonds, because his jaw was clenched too tight to form any words.
And it felt like they were leaving worlds and friends behind – vessels that once housed precious souls, the seething notion that he couldn’t grab them, couldn’t snag them, couldn’t bring them home gnarled and gnashed, bit and tore. Abandonment – curling and coiling upon him from the inside out.
--
Deimos hands Coffee over to Sunjata. Zuriel attempts to heal herself. Deimos grabs hold of Amalia in her otter form, and they collectively (Zuriel included) go down the corridor.
Then, there was only silence.
The finality, the weight, the tangible grips of it all pushed and pummeled into him, and the Sword remained numb in those scales and fortitudes, in age-old abilities to freeze his emotions, his feelings (and would’ve been better, to never have regained those capabilities at all?) when death stoked and surrounded. Later. They could fall apart later.
There was no time now.
Zuriel had tucked herself away, trying to heal her own wounded, battered frame, and his eyes passed from her to everything else. The weight of silence from Amalia told him all he needed to know for the moment – passing Coffee over to Sunjata without a word, portions of him shuddering and shivering from the icy denizens raging near them. But he raced, he and Zuriel ran just the same, snagging at the baker's otter form, holding her tightly in his arms, and advancing from where they’d once been. They needed to go. They needed to flee. Grab the shield he uttered to Sunjata through bonds, because his jaw was clenched too tight to form any words.
And it felt like they were leaving worlds and friends behind – vessels that once housed precious souls, the seething notion that he couldn’t grab them, couldn’t snag them, couldn’t bring them home gnarled and gnashed, bit and tore. Abandonment – curling and coiling upon him from the inside out.
--
Deimos hands Coffee over to Sunjata. Zuriel attempts to heal herself. Deimos grabs hold of Amalia in her otter form, and they collectively (Zuriel included) go down the corridor.
- until you had blood glistening on your teeth
- until your suffering paled in comparison to their own
- until you learned to enjoy the sounds of screams
