thousand different places

DEIMOS

ache first, but then let the cuts close
spit out the blood

He kept watch; a silent sentinel. The whistling ceased, and their ears twitched, their bodies tensed, and his eyes thought about flickering off in other directions, to rekindle the nuances of glows elsewhere. Crimson, instead of gold, furnished in the back of his mind, and stung, staying there, curved in the art of staffs, then something else altogether. Or racing, running, across the snow as the smoke followed and curled after them, as he brought the guild down, as the flames scorched and swallowed and emptied out monsters.

But then he could hear Sah talking again, and hadn’t realized how still he’d become. Rigid, unyielding, unbending, torn and contorted in pieces, in shapes, where he couldn’t be maimed, altered, or marred again. “Not all of it,” he shook his head. Some denizens of light, of good, of compassion, like healing, could be curled and contorted into cherished beacons and elements. Just not the art of draining life, the fire, and other notions eternally resting in his veins.

And then the other Abandoned yearned to leave, and maybe that was the wisest course. Deimos nodded, soldiering on, leaving the luxere behind, the sled following after his steps, his elongated strides, his vivid pace.

watch your body pull itself back together
then let your soul do the same