DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
There would’ve been a time, a life, or any number of instances where Deimos would’ve tried to overcome the munitions, the demolition, and the despair all on his own. It wouldn’t have been successful either, not in his reasoning, not in his binding, not in his abilities. The emotions always seemed to drown without an outlet, stifled and left to rot in the pinnacles of his chest, in the arches of his soul, blackening, decaying, and multiplying until he was withering from the inside out too. It’d taken him a long time to realize he wasn’t alone here, and didn’t need to be – the walls could come down on occasion, his heart could see the light, his mind could be eased, and others could be permitted the same. He’d eternally offered his support in countless other manifestations – protection, shielding, action upon action, repose after repose. But there wasn’t any other way to mold over broken pieces and those left behind; save for being present. Not hiding in his shadows. Not tucking himself away in those thickets and copses of darkness, not falling into those enticing, tempting pitfalls, where it was comfortable and familiar, not pushing everyone and anyone away. Chulane didn’t deserve any of the latter anyway.
“You are welcome,” he resounded. He meant it. “She would not want us like this.” Brittle, chipping away, frayed at the ends, thorned, nettled, in constant, unwinding pain, because they couldn’t stand a life where she wasn’t there. He paused, gaze falling back to the water, to the ripples in the springs, to the container in his hands. “Would you like to hear a story about her?” A way to keep her alive, alive, alive.
The Sword didn’t have much to add in the wake of Amun; he liked the man well enough, tolerated him, gave him a guild when he knew he wouldn’t be returning to the Grounds. The Mountain’s Roar held a more interesting preamble, and he stood from his crouch, placing a stopper in the vial. “I have not journeyed there yet.” Hopefully soon, with lilies in tow. At the inquiry, a very boyish, juvenile sort of snicker fell over his mouth. “In Helovia, when we were invading another land.” The Hidden Falls; though he hadn’t looked into much of it – been preoccupied and busy obliterating Midas’ reign. “There is one in the Greatwood as well – the Crimson Cataract.” Exactly as it sounded, vibrant red pools and all.
“You are welcome,” he resounded. He meant it. “She would not want us like this.” Brittle, chipping away, frayed at the ends, thorned, nettled, in constant, unwinding pain, because they couldn’t stand a life where she wasn’t there. He paused, gaze falling back to the water, to the ripples in the springs, to the container in his hands. “Would you like to hear a story about her?” A way to keep her alive, alive, alive.
The Sword didn’t have much to add in the wake of Amun; he liked the man well enough, tolerated him, gave him a guild when he knew he wouldn’t be returning to the Grounds. The Mountain’s Roar held a more interesting preamble, and he stood from his crouch, placing a stopper in the vial. “I have not journeyed there yet.” Hopefully soon, with lilies in tow. At the inquiry, a very boyish, juvenile sort of snicker fell over his mouth. “In Helovia, when we were invading another land.” The Hidden Falls; though he hadn’t looked into much of it – been preoccupied and busy obliterating Midas’ reign. “There is one in the Greatwood as well – the Crimson Cataract.” Exactly as it sounded, vibrant red pools and all.
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
