DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
The only reason he was here at all was because he trusted her.
Implicitly; given the multitude of fires, battles, storms, plans, and schemes they’d been through together. The woes and aftermaths, the blunted, serrated, keen edges of victory and the torment of defeat, the bitter anguish revolving through both of their lives. And when one of them cracked, the other was there – perhaps not as a mender (for Deimos could never be known for any healing motions or notions), but friends and comrades and family. They’d been amidst too many tempests to be anything less.
But this was a new one for him. Caring about his own wellbeing hadn’t ever been something forged in his mind. He didn’t deserve it. He wasn’t worthy of it. It was best to use his wiles, his methods, his strength, for everyone else, and let himself wither and decay as he sunk deeper and deeper into the warren of his own existence. It didn’t occur naturally, and his preference for working, for forging on ahead, for diminishing each and every emotion, save for the self-loathing, was a tried and true act.
He slowly lowered himself onto the table, long, muscled arms folded in front of him, chin resting on his forearm, every inch of his being sculpted into a bleak uncertainty. Beneath the surface of brawn and scars were a bundle of nerves and apprehension, and it didn’t help when he heard the crackle of lightning – immediately turning, twisting, expecting some other insistent reaction.
Except it was just the incense, and he side-eyed her quite warily; as maybe a feral, trapped animal might.
He took her warning for what it was worth, and eased a very slow breath through his lungs. His brows furrowed in the slightest of surprise, where she couldn’t see, because the uncertainty had waged far too deep in his bones and this wasn’t what he’d expected. Something else pooled along his flesh, the oil, he presumed, and the pine-needled scent wrapped around him in some inkling, in some haze, of worlds and worlds and worlds before. The pressure from her hands was intriguing too, and he tilted his head vaguely, as if trying to ascertain and study it, rather than give over to it just yet – the muscles around his spine unfurled, untethered, and the rest of him remained perplexed. “Yes,” he nodded, and then fully lowered his cranium once more, slowly, much as he’d done with the muck and mire, beginning to be released from the unnecessary wards and walls of tension. “Where did you learn this?”
Implicitly; given the multitude of fires, battles, storms, plans, and schemes they’d been through together. The woes and aftermaths, the blunted, serrated, keen edges of victory and the torment of defeat, the bitter anguish revolving through both of their lives. And when one of them cracked, the other was there – perhaps not as a mender (for Deimos could never be known for any healing motions or notions), but friends and comrades and family. They’d been amidst too many tempests to be anything less.
But this was a new one for him. Caring about his own wellbeing hadn’t ever been something forged in his mind. He didn’t deserve it. He wasn’t worthy of it. It was best to use his wiles, his methods, his strength, for everyone else, and let himself wither and decay as he sunk deeper and deeper into the warren of his own existence. It didn’t occur naturally, and his preference for working, for forging on ahead, for diminishing each and every emotion, save for the self-loathing, was a tried and true act.
He slowly lowered himself onto the table, long, muscled arms folded in front of him, chin resting on his forearm, every inch of his being sculpted into a bleak uncertainty. Beneath the surface of brawn and scars were a bundle of nerves and apprehension, and it didn’t help when he heard the crackle of lightning – immediately turning, twisting, expecting some other insistent reaction.
Except it was just the incense, and he side-eyed her quite warily; as maybe a feral, trapped animal might.
He took her warning for what it was worth, and eased a very slow breath through his lungs. His brows furrowed in the slightest of surprise, where she couldn’t see, because the uncertainty had waged far too deep in his bones and this wasn’t what he’d expected. Something else pooled along his flesh, the oil, he presumed, and the pine-needled scent wrapped around him in some inkling, in some haze, of worlds and worlds and worlds before. The pressure from her hands was intriguing too, and he tilted his head vaguely, as if trying to ascertain and study it, rather than give over to it just yet – the muscles around his spine unfurled, untethered, and the rest of him remained perplexed. “Yes,” he nodded, and then fully lowered his cranium once more, slowly, much as he’d done with the muck and mire, beginning to be released from the unnecessary wards and walls of tension. “Where did you learn this?”
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
