death, you bring death and destruction to all that you touch
“Did they say where that was?” Idle curiosity, when he had no control over the situation, when there was naught more to do than wait, in so many parameters and particulars. Ordinarily, patience wasn’t one of his dilemmas or problems; but something itched and etched in his blood, sketched an outline of uncertainty, sent to splinter into his veins.
More branches, more boughs, more twigs, more rocks and stones to occupy his time, to curb and curve along the restlessness lodged and stored within bones and muscles, a heavy breath, a sullen sigh, when reality began to echo. Become demigods. Hadn’t Amalia mentioned, before and between all the other devastating nuances, that Vi had changed her?
Had she been targeted? Had she been asked? Would she be willing to participate in such a war, when she’d once lectured him on all the battles, all the crusades, all the damned blood he’d shed? When he’d told her she didn’t know what she was talking about?
The Sword swallowed down a wealth of animosity, hostility, and consternation, and while it still stirred against his ribs, he ignored it to savor the information coiling around him. “A war.” Mind muddled, then reeling, back to orchestrations where he’d been strung along battlefields and drums, outcries of pain and agony in the midst of abhorrence and ferocity. “Would the Ascended even have the numbers to withstand a campaign…” A quiet muttering, rhetorical in its reach, perhaps. Wouldn’t it only take a billowing of fire, a conflagration, to render most of them ruined? What was the need, the purpose?
“Understandable, with the timing.” He tossed the branches down into a pile again, then started arranging several to lay out in the sun, to dry out with the coming season. “What will you do with the Fae, if you catch her?”
More branches, more boughs, more twigs, more rocks and stones to occupy his time, to curb and curve along the restlessness lodged and stored within bones and muscles, a heavy breath, a sullen sigh, when reality began to echo. Become demigods. Hadn’t Amalia mentioned, before and between all the other devastating nuances, that Vi had changed her?
Had she been targeted? Had she been asked? Would she be willing to participate in such a war, when she’d once lectured him on all the battles, all the crusades, all the damned blood he’d shed? When he’d told her she didn’t know what she was talking about?
The Sword swallowed down a wealth of animosity, hostility, and consternation, and while it still stirred against his ribs, he ignored it to savor the information coiling around him. “A war.” Mind muddled, then reeling, back to orchestrations where he’d been strung along battlefields and drums, outcries of pain and agony in the midst of abhorrence and ferocity. “Would the Ascended even have the numbers to withstand a campaign…” A quiet muttering, rhetorical in its reach, perhaps. Wouldn’t it only take a billowing of fire, a conflagration, to render most of them ruined? What was the need, the purpose?
“Understandable, with the timing.” He tossed the branches down into a pile again, then started arranging several to lay out in the sun, to dry out with the coming season. “What will you do with the Fae, if you catch her?”
DEIMOS
