DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
His eyes went to the gryphon first, a subsequent nod extended to the companion, before inhaling, exhaling, a massive gulp of air, chest maneuvering, and slowly extending the motions, as if compelling himself to control, to something beyond the forlorn reaches, when he knew exactly what he’d have to relive. A portion of it reeled in the back of his mind simply because it’d been so long since he’d witnessed someone die in front of him – in war, it had been almost happenstance, pieces and portions of the backdrop as the world was stained red. In battle, he’d intended for it. Here, though, he’d been permitted some moments of peace; the broken, the beaten, and the damned usually forsaken, gone, and he hadn’t been a witness to their final moments, heartbeats, or breaths; just the aftermath. Lately though, it’d been one after another, burning in memories, scorching in winds, haunting in slumber. Those at Fiat Lux, taken and obliterated, Abasi, Peter, Adam, and the companions – a certain cycle and rhythm to each season, and no chances to recover before the next storm, the next terror, the next onslaught.
And he hadn’t known them well at all either, and wondered if it was blasphemous to even believe he could create something to honor their existences. He recalled Peter as someone he couldn’t quite comprehend, beyond the lurking in shadows, next to Adam (pondering how he tolerated the man, then realizing the Sword had gone on to do just that too – capable of enduring his presence in small doses). The General nodded at the notion of statues, of little Coffee and his ilk staring over the sea. He was silent, quiet, and hushed in his considerations, eyes going towards the roll of the ocean, features catching the semblance of the salty air, the breeze, before his gaze fell back to Jigano. “Perhaps a statue of Peter’s luxere?” That way the companions could match; the little skeletal figure next to the dragon, all of them collected and together, souls and emblems.
He dropped his bag then, rifling through it to grab his own notebook papers, and a small pencil, maneuvering through diagrams of defensive instruments and implements, to a blank sanction where he could sketch the design across the document. A few moments more, gruff, brief strokes flickering throughout, and Jigano’s other request reverberated, echoed, through his mind – forced to relive it again and again and again. The beast put the pencil down for a second, letting it rest against the outline of little bony hooves and legs, pondering how best to even begin. “It was stupid, reckless, and we were painfully ignorant.” An accurate summary of the entire journey; in grave, solemn tones, stare flickering back and forth across the horizon. “We thought we would be able to meet up with a dragon for Safrin’s quest. She wanted the heart of a rare creature.” But none of them had really considered the size, the nature, or the power behind a draconic individual, all used to those of Coffee’s dominion and disposition. “It went wrong from the start. We encountered a cannibal. Amalia wanted to save him, try to use him for information. Sunjata killed him.” And maybe they should’ve known, shouldn’t understood, what they were heading into: looking back on the scene, with the ice touching every section of the room, with walls of hordes solidified, minimal treasures blocked, and only one man living in its sanction, barely alive. “You can imagine how that went.” A shrug; no need to describe Amalia’s rage, when Jigano would likely understand.
“Eventually we did find the dragon. Asleep.” And perhaps committed to the dumbest things of all, by not leaving, by seeing this massive creature and wandering into its midst. “We sent the companions to wake it up. Peter changed into a bat and went with his luxere.” Then he shook his head, clenching his jaw, the inevitable, sinking back into his blood, into his chest. “The dragon was not fond of our presence. All of the companions were hit by a blast of ice. Coffee and Apricum did not survive.” He fell into silence thereafter, waiting for a reaction, for more questions, before the tale continued.
And he hadn’t known them well at all either, and wondered if it was blasphemous to even believe he could create something to honor their existences. He recalled Peter as someone he couldn’t quite comprehend, beyond the lurking in shadows, next to Adam (pondering how he tolerated the man, then realizing the Sword had gone on to do just that too – capable of enduring his presence in small doses). The General nodded at the notion of statues, of little Coffee and his ilk staring over the sea. He was silent, quiet, and hushed in his considerations, eyes going towards the roll of the ocean, features catching the semblance of the salty air, the breeze, before his gaze fell back to Jigano. “Perhaps a statue of Peter’s luxere?” That way the companions could match; the little skeletal figure next to the dragon, all of them collected and together, souls and emblems.
He dropped his bag then, rifling through it to grab his own notebook papers, and a small pencil, maneuvering through diagrams of defensive instruments and implements, to a blank sanction where he could sketch the design across the document. A few moments more, gruff, brief strokes flickering throughout, and Jigano’s other request reverberated, echoed, through his mind – forced to relive it again and again and again. The beast put the pencil down for a second, letting it rest against the outline of little bony hooves and legs, pondering how best to even begin. “It was stupid, reckless, and we were painfully ignorant.” An accurate summary of the entire journey; in grave, solemn tones, stare flickering back and forth across the horizon. “We thought we would be able to meet up with a dragon for Safrin’s quest. She wanted the heart of a rare creature.” But none of them had really considered the size, the nature, or the power behind a draconic individual, all used to those of Coffee’s dominion and disposition. “It went wrong from the start. We encountered a cannibal. Amalia wanted to save him, try to use him for information. Sunjata killed him.” And maybe they should’ve known, shouldn’t understood, what they were heading into: looking back on the scene, with the ice touching every section of the room, with walls of hordes solidified, minimal treasures blocked, and only one man living in its sanction, barely alive. “You can imagine how that went.” A shrug; no need to describe Amalia’s rage, when Jigano would likely understand.
“Eventually we did find the dragon. Asleep.” And perhaps committed to the dumbest things of all, by not leaving, by seeing this massive creature and wandering into its midst. “We sent the companions to wake it up. Peter changed into a bat and went with his luxere.” Then he shook his head, clenching his jaw, the inevitable, sinking back into his blood, into his chest. “The dragon was not fond of our presence. All of the companions were hit by a blast of ice. Coffee and Apricum did not survive.” He fell into silence thereafter, waiting for a reaction, for more questions, before the tale continued.
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
