DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
He wondered, looking back on Helovian times, in winds of smoke, fumes, and condemnation, if it had ever felt so hopeless as it did in Caido. Amongst the Basin, he’d known exactly what to do and how to commit to his actions: fight, fight, fight, persist, endure, maim, and tear anything that stood in their way, anything that dared to harm them. He’d been detached, apathetic, nonchalant to those who slunk their way to his boundaries and dared to trespass, watching as they fell away to nothing. He’d been a vessel, a machine, a weapon, and it’d suited everyone just fine. He’d been a colossal, intimidating force, and they’d known him as the Reaper – a cloak, a veil, a dagger, a sword, a weight of unattainable, unreachable dominion. Carving out anarchy, an unrelenting, brutal ferocity, the wake of the chill around his existence like the summits he reigned upon. He’d been bitter with every defeat. He’d been persevering through every tirade. But the agony had never felt so lasting.
Here he loved and cherished, and it just ripped him apart.
The man clenched the pencil hard in his grasp; somehow, someway, it didn’t break or fissure from the force entangled, embroiled, within its sanction. “Amongst the other things she wanted.” He wasn’t certain where his rancor was supposed to lie now, with Sunjata, with Safrin, with the entire fiasco, or like so many others, he was meant to simply move on. For all the wisdom the starry goddess had shared, he still struggled with piecing it together upon his own soul.
He didn’t expect the gryphon to sidle towards him, talons clutching at his knee – staring down at the furry creature, one palm leaving the paper he held, brushing over the top of its head, then scratching behind the ears, as he might’ve done with Auni. The Sword’s jaw worked in hushed decibels: clenching, unclenching, head bowed, tired, exhausted, and withdrawn all over again. “She told us we were not the circumstances we found ourselves in, nor the deaths, mistakes, or words.” But what if they were? Just mere echoes of their flaws and defects, of the way they strived and tried and it never seemed to matter?
Here he loved and cherished, and it just ripped him apart.
The man clenched the pencil hard in his grasp; somehow, someway, it didn’t break or fissure from the force entangled, embroiled, within its sanction. “Amongst the other things she wanted.” He wasn’t certain where his rancor was supposed to lie now, with Sunjata, with Safrin, with the entire fiasco, or like so many others, he was meant to simply move on. For all the wisdom the starry goddess had shared, he still struggled with piecing it together upon his own soul.
He didn’t expect the gryphon to sidle towards him, talons clutching at his knee – staring down at the furry creature, one palm leaving the paper he held, brushing over the top of its head, then scratching behind the ears, as he might’ve done with Auni. The Sword’s jaw worked in hushed decibels: clenching, unclenching, head bowed, tired, exhausted, and withdrawn all over again. “She told us we were not the circumstances we found ourselves in, nor the deaths, mistakes, or words.” But what if they were? Just mere echoes of their flaws and defects, of the way they strived and tried and it never seemed to matter?
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
