DEIMOS
we've all got blood on our hands
something somewhere had to die
so we could stay alive
His gaze was drawn over the waters, to the sea, the sea, the sea, and its everlasting power. Fond memories of childhood and juvenile tendencies still presided there – even if it wasn’t the same ocean, or even the same world. The waves, the tides, the currents continued to resonate strength, fortitude, and might, and even when he felt like crumbling stone and broken filaments, at least the undulations of this portion of kingdoms remained, resided; a visual keepsake and reminder of persistence. Another figure roamed nearby, and with the rain steadying, amplifying in its intensity, he presumed they too would be gone, away from docks and ports, back into drier proportions. But it advanced instead, and he’d missed the volley of wings, until they came closer, closer, and there was no denying they were seeking him out. He had half a moment where he thought to continue wandering, persist in avoiding, in taking to shadows, to shifts, to roam and for once be left in some act of repose (ultimately, it never lasted).
But then she was too close for it to be so rudely obvious, and he was snagged in between the surf and shoal. A residual sigh floated along his breath, and before he could grant anything, she’d identified him. His title, his namesake, a blade, a cutlass, an acrimonious weapon; and he twisted his head to address, to study, to scrutinize before answering. She was only familiar in species; clearly Fae by height and wings (and something coiled in the back of his mind; he left it there to drift amongst safekeeping), but he didn’t recognize the hair, or face. “Yes.” Was she seeking him out for something in particular? He remained rigid and taut, spine perfectly straight, while his gaze segmented back to the sea. “Who are you?”
