DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
Piling and composing, grabbing hold of some fish that had managed to spill out into the sand, his thoughts rambled and wandered, listening to the decibels of the dragon, to one of the few who’d sustained life on their ridiculous, stupefying quest. Perhaps some part of it was Deimos’ guilt; for having survived when Peter and Adam didn’t, even though that’s how he’d lived, operated, and manifested for the better part of two lifetimes. Go to war, stand upright, walk off the battlefield where some of his brethren never would again. Bury them in the softened, bloodied soil, rinse and repeat, get up again the next day with their souls on his back and keep plunging onward. Challenge another for their emboldened audacity to even dare pressing their wake into his land, for threatening those he’d sworn to protect. Spread sedition and vengeance. Unearth the world, charge ahead where others couldn’t – defy, defy, defy.
But the Flood’s idea coiled against his mind, and it hadn’t been something he considered. It was another method, another mode, but the implications of what would go in place, if such a mythical beast wouldn’t find their own corpses suitable and justifiable, was another uncertainty. His brows furrowed in thought again, and though the inquiry was on his tongue, it wasn't dipped or tipped in venom, in poison, in refusal. “What else would a dragon want? More treasure?” He could only remember the iced over remnants of the cave, the cannibals’ ill fates, the frozen walls, everything trapped behind the niche of vitriol and vehemence. “I had thought to acquire them like I had done Coffee, and hopefully not disturb the creature at all.” Quiet, subversive, plotted out – but he shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, uncertain if all of it was just a game he was doomed to lose.
But the Flood’s idea coiled against his mind, and it hadn’t been something he considered. It was another method, another mode, but the implications of what would go in place, if such a mythical beast wouldn’t find their own corpses suitable and justifiable, was another uncertainty. His brows furrowed in thought again, and though the inquiry was on his tongue, it wasn't dipped or tipped in venom, in poison, in refusal. “What else would a dragon want? More treasure?” He could only remember the iced over remnants of the cave, the cannibals’ ill fates, the frozen walls, everything trapped behind the niche of vitriol and vehemence. “I had thought to acquire them like I had done Coffee, and hopefully not disturb the creature at all.” Quiet, subversive, plotted out – but he shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, uncertain if all of it was just a game he was doomed to lose.
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
