DEIMOS
The Sword waited for some inevitable swing; a puncture, a laceration, a bruise to ricochet over his already labored shoulders. The day had gone in a series of cyclical anguish and pain, and he wondered which line he’d crossed now, which tether was too frayed and not good enough. Patiently, stoically, ready to take the onslaught, pondering when and where a final blow would come from, when it no longer ricocheted or bounded, absorbed or collided. Unraveling, unfurling, breaking apart the seams, uncertain where to go or how far to press now, a forgone conclusion that he would lose her too –
Then his hands were enveloped, and he breathed an easier sigh. Not chiseled into damnation then, acceptance and tolerance again for his icy walls, for his damaged ramparts. The relief sunk into his skin and he felt like flickering into nothingness, becoming a part of the floor, no longer held together by his limbs, by his marrow, by his strength. Perhaps the only thing stitching or holding him together were her palms, his eyes lifting to regard her as he was surrounded, pervaded, by love, staring in awe. He didn’t deserve it; but took it anyway, the moments stretched into something more than quiet, more than profound pieces. Love you too he murmured in return, leaning forward, tired, tired, tired.
Going home thereafter – to familiarity, to portions that weren’t so broken, that weren’t so haunted. He raised his head as she drew away, eyes still continuing to spiral against the colors of Adam’s world, the stark reality of it being left behind. Ordinarily he’d cling to the contortions, the promises, of normalcy. But the world had ricocheted and rioted, and she’d come here with other things in mind besides his ruin and redemption. “There is nothing else you wish to do here?”
Then he rose from the seat, body in protest, stretching in accord, before his stare segmented to the bag he’d left by the door. There’d been purpose to its existence here too, to place some designation back into Adam’s sanction, but it’d been forgotten in the warping hours of devastation. Reaching for it, his hands opened the brim, and then plucked out the crimson brooch, offering it in the palm of his hand to her. Better off in her grasp. “Adam gave this to me, though I presume it was a joke. It was likely meant for Peter.” He’d thought to hang onto it, to give it back after their quest, so Adam and Peter might exchange their gifts then and there. But it didn’t happen that way. “Would you like it?”
Then his hands were enveloped, and he breathed an easier sigh. Not chiseled into damnation then, acceptance and tolerance again for his icy walls, for his damaged ramparts. The relief sunk into his skin and he felt like flickering into nothingness, becoming a part of the floor, no longer held together by his limbs, by his marrow, by his strength. Perhaps the only thing stitching or holding him together were her palms, his eyes lifting to regard her as he was surrounded, pervaded, by love, staring in awe. He didn’t deserve it; but took it anyway, the moments stretched into something more than quiet, more than profound pieces. Love you too he murmured in return, leaning forward, tired, tired, tired.
Going home thereafter – to familiarity, to portions that weren’t so broken, that weren’t so haunted. He raised his head as she drew away, eyes still continuing to spiral against the colors of Adam’s world, the stark reality of it being left behind. Ordinarily he’d cling to the contortions, the promises, of normalcy. But the world had ricocheted and rioted, and she’d come here with other things in mind besides his ruin and redemption. “There is nothing else you wish to do here?”
Then he rose from the seat, body in protest, stretching in accord, before his stare segmented to the bag he’d left by the door. There’d been purpose to its existence here too, to place some designation back into Adam’s sanction, but it’d been forgotten in the warping hours of devastation. Reaching for it, his hands opened the brim, and then plucked out the crimson brooch, offering it in the palm of his hand to her. Better off in her grasp. “Adam gave this to me, though I presume it was a joke. It was likely meant for Peter.” He’d thought to hang onto it, to give it back after their quest, so Adam and Peter might exchange their gifts then and there. But it didn’t happen that way. “Would you like it?”
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
