DEIMOS
the fire can't touch me
for I have burned too many times
for I have burned too many times
Deimos snorted, loud and abrupt, at her first statement. “That was not the point of the exercise,” countered with a vague sense of humor, ghosting away from the blistering conflagrations of days when he’d been trounced, in one way or another. Sometimes emotionally, the deeper foundations drowning him so much that he could no longer scrape to the surface. Sometimes in machinations, another equally clever, tactical, seeing him for what he was. Sometimes misfortune, burrowing into the layers and lacquer of the unknown, until he was overwhelmed by their chaotic efforts.
But it’d never been his spirit. They could only break apart the lacquer of his formidable, enduring, persevering soul. The rest remained, chiseled, solidified, beneath layers of scars and lacerations, beneath muscle and brawn, beneath the stony fixture of his presence. The sedition, the irreverence, the timeless revolution always came after.
And fate? That she so easily passed herself aside for the course of pre-conceived notion of destiny nearly made him snort again, but he withheld it. Deimos had always had faith in himself first, before everything else – before deities, before others, before even those he loved and cherished (because he’d learned, that they too, could just as easily abandon him). However, the monolith understood the nuances in this case – she had no say in being sent to an onslaught she hadn’t asked for. “You have a voice in how you fight.” In how she lived, in how she intended to alter this abrupt, choking course. To take what she could, to not let the world diminish those aspirations and ambitions. “Not naïve.” He shrugged his shoulders; because at least she had something to shoot for, when everything seemed very dire and hopeless and lost. How many times had he buried himself in his grief, with no light, no contortion, at the end of the overwhelming abyss? “It is a goal. And if it motivates you out of this upheaval, then follow it.” She couldn’t slay dragons if she was perilously cut apart by monsters. She couldn’t avenge her brethren if she was torn to shreds by demons. A figment to grab hold of was far better than sinking into the terror and torment.
The Sword still made no maneuver to hand back her blade, half-amused by them both in his grasp now. He inclined his head, half a grin forming, the tilt avian, canine, and feline all at once – formulations of predators who knew their place. “We all do.” His jaw jutted forward, indicating the rest of the crowd, continuing the same ministrations; combatting, skirmishing, striving to find a way to become better, stronger. “I would much rather learn than become complacent." An arch to his brow signified a do you not feel the same indication without words, passing her the armament back by the hilt. “Show me your crossbow skills then. I can set up a mobile target for you.”
But it’d never been his spirit. They could only break apart the lacquer of his formidable, enduring, persevering soul. The rest remained, chiseled, solidified, beneath layers of scars and lacerations, beneath muscle and brawn, beneath the stony fixture of his presence. The sedition, the irreverence, the timeless revolution always came after.
And fate? That she so easily passed herself aside for the course of pre-conceived notion of destiny nearly made him snort again, but he withheld it. Deimos had always had faith in himself first, before everything else – before deities, before others, before even those he loved and cherished (because he’d learned, that they too, could just as easily abandon him). However, the monolith understood the nuances in this case – she had no say in being sent to an onslaught she hadn’t asked for. “You have a voice in how you fight.” In how she lived, in how she intended to alter this abrupt, choking course. To take what she could, to not let the world diminish those aspirations and ambitions. “Not naïve.” He shrugged his shoulders; because at least she had something to shoot for, when everything seemed very dire and hopeless and lost. How many times had he buried himself in his grief, with no light, no contortion, at the end of the overwhelming abyss? “It is a goal. And if it motivates you out of this upheaval, then follow it.” She couldn’t slay dragons if she was perilously cut apart by monsters. She couldn’t avenge her brethren if she was torn to shreds by demons. A figment to grab hold of was far better than sinking into the terror and torment.
The Sword still made no maneuver to hand back her blade, half-amused by them both in his grasp now. He inclined his head, half a grin forming, the tilt avian, canine, and feline all at once – formulations of predators who knew their place. “We all do.” His jaw jutted forward, indicating the rest of the crowd, continuing the same ministrations; combatting, skirmishing, striving to find a way to become better, stronger. “I would much rather learn than become complacent." An arch to his brow signified a do you not feel the same indication without words, passing her the armament back by the hilt. “Show me your crossbow skills then. I can set up a mobile target for you.”
the sea can't harm me
for I have been drowning all my life
for I have been drowning all my life
