DEIMOS
ache first, but then let the cuts close
spit out the blood
spit out the blood
Deimos preferred the actions and noise of the barracks, compared to the office he used infrequently. The training grounds, the slide of steel, the vehemence, and the distinction of growth, of learning, of instruction, was a far more comfortable thing to him than the four walls and a desk, than the notions of diplomacy and politics. Movement, motion, measures, and machinations would coast and circumvent through his mind, but the partiality and predilection towards the calculations immersed in defense, in shielding, in sieges, made sitting behind a writing table difficult. But he’d been asked for, and had it not been someone like Bastien, who he considered a friend, then he might’ve been an impassive, reticent void – requesting they hold discussions within the quarters where the tenors of demolition and destruction could be heard.
Except, based on recent notice board posts, this might’ve been something not meant for everyone else’s ears.
The Sword would feign innocence and ignorance for now, opening the door of his office at the scheduled time, to find the Ascended nearby, and not alone.
Something slid within his spine and out through his heart at the sight of what must’ve been Azrael – Rexanna’s last child, with resemblances of both mother and father uncanny. It took him several moments of recomposing his features from something not so stunned, eyes not so widened, guilt not so heavy; but perhaps that would never truly go away, no matter how many times the Penumbra told him the blame didn’t rest on his shoulders. His gaze went back to the artist and ambassador first, a nod, the slightest of smiles. “Bastien,” and then to the child, for whom he’d crafted toys not many seasons ago, already aged. “Azrael.” He removed himself from the doorway, allowing entry, where there were chairs near the desk, the otherwise Spartan room (adorned with a few weapons, papers, diagrams, sketches) leaving little to impress upon. “What brings you here?”
Except, based on recent notice board posts, this might’ve been something not meant for everyone else’s ears.
The Sword would feign innocence and ignorance for now, opening the door of his office at the scheduled time, to find the Ascended nearby, and not alone.
Something slid within his spine and out through his heart at the sight of what must’ve been Azrael – Rexanna’s last child, with resemblances of both mother and father uncanny. It took him several moments of recomposing his features from something not so stunned, eyes not so widened, guilt not so heavy; but perhaps that would never truly go away, no matter how many times the Penumbra told him the blame didn’t rest on his shoulders. His gaze went back to the artist and ambassador first, a nod, the slightest of smiles. “Bastien,” and then to the child, for whom he’d crafted toys not many seasons ago, already aged. “Azrael.” He removed himself from the doorway, allowing entry, where there were chairs near the desk, the otherwise Spartan room (adorned with a few weapons, papers, diagrams, sketches) leaving little to impress upon. “What brings you here?”
watch your body pull itself back together
then let your soul do the same
then let your soul do the same
