DEIMOS
He didn’t, couldn’t, recall in the next few moments how they’d wandered into the midst of this unknown world, how he’d been settled along a bed, eyes quickly darting around but taking nothing in. The surroundings were strange and for a moment an inward panic started to rise, and the notions of being left there alone scraped against his chest. Because that’s what he’d always had – alone, alone, alone, abandoned into the sanction of weapons and scabbards and what he could implement, wield, until there was naught left of him but bones in the mountainside. And sometimes all he could do to stop from breaking was to swallow down the apprehension like the emotions were knives, feel them stab against his throat, larynx, and lungs, glide down into his soul where they stayed, interlocked, knotted, and gnarled.
The Sword expected them to go – and his hands wanted to reach out, to catch at voices and friends so they didn’t leave again. It was a desperate, undignified sort of gesture, and in the end he only grabbed at the sheets, fingers clutching until knuckles were white, breathing labored, attempting to constitute a semblance of control so fleeting and insubstantial now. Barely upright, his head bowed when Morgan asked him about shoes, and he stared down at his feet, surprised to find he was wearing any at all. “No. I can get them.” A distraction from the claws within his own mind, and leaning forward made him dizzy, everything fumbling, until he’d managed to slip them off, sliding them under the bed.
Then he curled in amongst himself once more, against the wall and the chilling stone, listening as Chulane called for something to drink – and he nearly rejoiced at the notion. The other question made him blink, slowly, trying to regain his senses, to understand how to answer. Shudders and shivers ran through him, despite the layers of clothing wrapped around his figure, taken and snagged and placed upon in the midsts of the wild fever. “Cold.” An idea, delusional, sprang to mind, and he lifted one palm. “Can I have my fire?” The embers started within the center, glorious, bright, and minute, for the moment.
The Sword expected them to go – and his hands wanted to reach out, to catch at voices and friends so they didn’t leave again. It was a desperate, undignified sort of gesture, and in the end he only grabbed at the sheets, fingers clutching until knuckles were white, breathing labored, attempting to constitute a semblance of control so fleeting and insubstantial now. Barely upright, his head bowed when Morgan asked him about shoes, and he stared down at his feet, surprised to find he was wearing any at all. “No. I can get them.” A distraction from the claws within his own mind, and leaning forward made him dizzy, everything fumbling, until he’d managed to slip them off, sliding them under the bed.
Then he curled in amongst himself once more, against the wall and the chilling stone, listening as Chulane called for something to drink – and he nearly rejoiced at the notion. The other question made him blink, slowly, trying to regain his senses, to understand how to answer. Shudders and shivers ran through him, despite the layers of clothing wrapped around his figure, taken and snagged and placed upon in the midsts of the wild fever. “Cold.” An idea, delusional, sprang to mind, and he lifted one palm. “Can I have my fire?” The embers started within the center, glorious, bright, and minute, for the moment.
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
