DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
Quiet again, immersed back into those contemplative silences, where he sank into rivulets of the known, his eyes only fell upon the vials, lulled by the babbling trickle of water. It wasn’t the same, and he had to remind himself over and over again – not the lairs of caves between Basin complexes, not the long, harsh, winding road leading between mountains and summits, not the bristling, harsh winds, not the void that had consumed him for so very long. No concentration was required in his midst of harsh requiems and hushed dirges, the song in his heart a clenching, disastrous tune (it sounded like knives, it sounded like stilettos, it sounded like daggers, piercing and sliding between his ribs, and she was still gone). He dipped another vial into the fathoms, and permitted his magic to press and cajole the water into its wake, smoothly captured, the topper placed, following through on pattern after pattern, so no one would be without again, and they wouldn’t have to suffer, wouldn’t have to be locked back in their endless abyss –
Chulane uttered something, and he froze. His body became an unyielding sort of thing, much like a honed weapon, ready to strike, ready to sizzle, ready to unleash; except this one was a mask, a pretense, so that he didn’t shatter. So that he didn’t warp. So that he didn’t fall apart at the seams again, between the ghosts and fragments, along the ethers and webs, the vestiges bombarding, haunting, death ricocheting on the tips of syllables and phrases.
Wanted to find where she fell.
Where she’d died. Perished. Gone out of their lives like a burnt out ember.
His jaw clenched, a feathering of muscles, and he looked down at the springs, a breath slowly cast out of him. That Chulane couldn’t spilled over too, and the uncertainty weighed heavily on the Sword now. Would he have done the same? “Where was it?”
Chulane uttered something, and he froze. His body became an unyielding sort of thing, much like a honed weapon, ready to strike, ready to sizzle, ready to unleash; except this one was a mask, a pretense, so that he didn’t shatter. So that he didn’t warp. So that he didn’t fall apart at the seams again, between the ghosts and fragments, along the ethers and webs, the vestiges bombarding, haunting, death ricocheting on the tips of syllables and phrases.
Wanted to find where she fell.
Where she’d died. Perished. Gone out of their lives like a burnt out ember.
His jaw clenched, a feathering of muscles, and he looked down at the springs, a breath slowly cast out of him. That Chulane couldn’t spilled over too, and the uncertainty weighed heavily on the Sword now. Would he have done the same? “Where was it?”
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
