DEIMOS
the fire can't touch me
for I have burned too many times
for I have burned too many times
Surrounded by the hum of movement and motion, by the reel of steel upon steel, of crashing metal and riotous shouts, brought him some amount of peace. Perhaps the sentiments were bizarre, but for a man who’d grown up upon battlefields, in the midst of skirmishes, in the volley and wisecracks of training, who’d lived and breathed and died as a weapon, it was familiar, like another home. Where vehemence didn’t stick so readily, but came alive in competitive thralls, in the perfected orchestrations of blades and daggers, of knives and bows, of fortified strength, enamel, grit, fire, and determination. The Shields might not have been as prevalent as they once were, but these were beginnings. These were steps, for all of them, for every individual in those hallowed halls, for each and every one of them willing, and able, to give it their all.
He walked, he instructed, he paced, a restless, coiled behemoth, not striking at any of them – just watching, waiting, biding hours and minutes and seconds; until he caught a wave from the corner of his eye. Turning in her direction, he shook his head, laughed – some exuberant thing that resounded and reverberated across the expanse. “You are late,” a tease; he didn’t expect her to be up before the sun, not like himself, who’d worn that pattern for what felt like centuries.
Her maneuver into a defensive crouch, sword drawn and ready, was all he needed after that.
The blade in his hands arced into the air, swift and quick, angling towards her shoulder, eager to see how she’d turn, twist, or get around it – to see what she’d learned and mastered while he’d merely struggled to survive.
He walked, he instructed, he paced, a restless, coiled behemoth, not striking at any of them – just watching, waiting, biding hours and minutes and seconds; until he caught a wave from the corner of his eye. Turning in her direction, he shook his head, laughed – some exuberant thing that resounded and reverberated across the expanse. “You are late,” a tease; he didn’t expect her to be up before the sun, not like himself, who’d worn that pattern for what felt like centuries.
Her maneuver into a defensive crouch, sword drawn and ready, was all he needed after that.
The blade in his hands arced into the air, swift and quick, angling towards her shoulder, eager to see how she’d turn, twist, or get around it – to see what she’d learned and mastered while he’d merely struggled to survive.
the sea can't harm me
for I have been drowning all my life
for I have been drowning all my life
