DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
Lost in the parallels, he drowned in the wake of too many uncertainties, and too many broken, whittled armaments. The waves continued to rise on his prowess, his dominion, and he wasn’t certain if he should be proud or exhausted, watching the pool ascend, witnessing branches of rivulets stream forth into the air, careen, twist, and bend, like nooses, like claws, like boughs. His breath was easy, as if he’d braved a thousand storms and this was nothing but nostalgia, memories, and the wake, the vestiges, the ethers of so many other strangled moments. Somewhere it felt sacred, and then unjust, in the pits and pinnacles of his gut, diving like a hurricane, like a harpoon, in the carved sieges, in the rattling of cages. Asking why now after all this time, after all the lineages, all the sacrifices, all the tragedies, didn’t seem to matter. There’d be no answers. There’d be no response. There’d be no reply. More enigmas, more quandaries, more perils; his mother’s gift pressing in on his existence. And what to do with it, other than shielding, other than defending, other than –
A voice over the waves, over the sea, over the rooted thorns slanted into his ribs. It bounded and ricocheted for a moment, settling into his mind, crawling, slower-paced, languid, listless, as if he couldn’t quite fathom them, his eyes staring straight ahead at the whirlwind of enchantments scouring the surface. Even if he’d spent multiple lives trying to blend into shadows, trying to feed into darker intervals, trying to be naught but hollowed sanctions and unattainable fathoms, the world still found him.
He turned, head over his shoulder, and the mysticism, the concentration, faded into oblivion. The water ceased, desisted, flowing like a veil, like a curtain, back to its collected brethren. Recognition dawned on him in the midst of silence, Seiji, but naught else except the name from the lantern making. Finally, his breath eased, a contortion of reflections in stoicism, in reticence, in the glimmer of curious strands. “Yes,” he obliged, not sure where this would lead. Not many had bombarded him with their thoughts on magic, on distorting reality, on feeding the earth with the depths of his ire or capability. But it didn’t mean they weren’t still out there: growling, rumbling, their remorseless intonations on the creatures known as Abandoned.
A voice over the waves, over the sea, over the rooted thorns slanted into his ribs. It bounded and ricocheted for a moment, settling into his mind, crawling, slower-paced, languid, listless, as if he couldn’t quite fathom them, his eyes staring straight ahead at the whirlwind of enchantments scouring the surface. Even if he’d spent multiple lives trying to blend into shadows, trying to feed into darker intervals, trying to be naught but hollowed sanctions and unattainable fathoms, the world still found him.
He turned, head over his shoulder, and the mysticism, the concentration, faded into oblivion. The water ceased, desisted, flowing like a veil, like a curtain, back to its collected brethren. Recognition dawned on him in the midst of silence, Seiji, but naught else except the name from the lantern making. Finally, his breath eased, a contortion of reflections in stoicism, in reticence, in the glimmer of curious strands. “Yes,” he obliged, not sure where this would lead. Not many had bombarded him with their thoughts on magic, on distorting reality, on feeding the earth with the depths of his ire or capability. But it didn’t mean they weren’t still out there: growling, rumbling, their remorseless intonations on the creatures known as Abandoned.
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
