DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
The Sword hadn’t been involved in gathering anything else of note or worth, so while the curiosity might have buoyed and floated towards him, the beast had naught to give. Maybe that was just as well too – since offering their wares had proven to be foolish and ridiculous too: a tumultuous tirade and parade of failures and distinctions. His previous quest for Amalia, for Safrin, had gone on without a hitch: he’d provided the necessary materials, and the Shield’s legs were in working order once more, along with blessed rings and stars to follow. The Sword’s anger and frustration hadn’t been with the goddess, but the ordeal, and ringleader, itself. He’d called Sunjata reckless, selfish; and the chords still stuck, still struck, attempting to make the fool encounter some sort of epiphany, be held accountable for his actions, while the rest of the world didn’t seem to bother.
The gryphon surprised him again by leaping upon his shoulder, wrapping around his neck, a purr, a drone, a few comforting murmurs elongated and extended. He kept himself together as best he could, returning to the age-old, primordial, stoic form, the hand following her movements to continue scratching, thankful, acknowledging the companion’s efforts.
He listened to Jigano’s speech: knowing full well they were the epitome of every damned motion they’d ever made. The ones they remembered, they chiseled, they sculpted the most though, seemed to be the failures, the defeats, the scars.
The question following had its own piercing edge to it, mind reeling back over others’ actions. “I asked him to grab the net’s rope as we all ran, but it did not matter.” Because Deimos hadn’t succeeded in his attempts, had to follow through on other coldhearted machinations, breathe through the agony, clutch over the ramparts of defeat, bring something home out of the calamity, out of the mess. A series of cycles, of consequences, of never-ending nothingness. “He stood in front of Amalia while I made the shield.” While she prayed and begged for Adam, for Peter, for all of it to cease (though she'd already been guarded, by his ice, by the charm he'd given her). “Pleaded with the dragon.” That fell upon deaf ears, as the ivory form roared and demanded they leave. “I am not certain what else could have been done.” Perhaps fighting back, only to witness Sunjata also being mauled and murdered for his attempts. Besides never going in the first place. Perhaps that was what irritated, irked, and infuriated him the most: the entire fiasco and series of deaths completely unavoidable, had the Flood done any research, had none of them been so blind or naïve, incredibly ignorant and unassuming.
The gryphon surprised him again by leaping upon his shoulder, wrapping around his neck, a purr, a drone, a few comforting murmurs elongated and extended. He kept himself together as best he could, returning to the age-old, primordial, stoic form, the hand following her movements to continue scratching, thankful, acknowledging the companion’s efforts.
He listened to Jigano’s speech: knowing full well they were the epitome of every damned motion they’d ever made. The ones they remembered, they chiseled, they sculpted the most though, seemed to be the failures, the defeats, the scars.
The question following had its own piercing edge to it, mind reeling back over others’ actions. “I asked him to grab the net’s rope as we all ran, but it did not matter.” Because Deimos hadn’t succeeded in his attempts, had to follow through on other coldhearted machinations, breathe through the agony, clutch over the ramparts of defeat, bring something home out of the calamity, out of the mess. A series of cycles, of consequences, of never-ending nothingness. “He stood in front of Amalia while I made the shield.” While she prayed and begged for Adam, for Peter, for all of it to cease (though she'd already been guarded, by his ice, by the charm he'd given her). “Pleaded with the dragon.” That fell upon deaf ears, as the ivory form roared and demanded they leave. “I am not certain what else could have been done.” Perhaps fighting back, only to witness Sunjata also being mauled and murdered for his attempts. Besides never going in the first place. Perhaps that was what irritated, irked, and infuriated him the most: the entire fiasco and series of deaths completely unavoidable, had the Flood done any research, had none of them been so blind or naïve, incredibly ignorant and unassuming.
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
