DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
The knots of tension so readily dispersed at her hands were only conjured back by her words, and it took several moments of the apology to cycle through his mind, and long, deep breaths, for him to be rendered to where they’d been beforehand. Control and composure, traits instilled within him from a tender, young age, maintained their prominence over the situation, over the statement spoken, and then he shook his head; all forgiven. He just wasn’t quite ready to face those angles and facets. Not when there were too many other aspects to mend, to heal, and it’d taken him nearly a year to process the moments leading up to the present – at finding footholds again, at not sacrificing himself to benefit others who really didn’t care.
The monolith lowered his brow upon his arm again as she praised him, muffling a snort, some manner of self-deprecation, habitual and instinctual, over the lines and tables, over the pine still sticking to his senses. His shoulders appreciated her efforts, flattened out from her measures, a ghost of a sigh waging through, echoing off the surface. “Thank you.” And he was trying, even if it was painstaking, labored, and somewhat torturous. Even if looking within was immensely sharp and brutal. Even if he had to continually face his own dilemmas and sort out the mishaps, the stupidity, and linger upon thresholds he’d avoided far too often. “It would not be fair to place all of my problems on another.” And he hadn’t tried to with either Hotaru or Amalia; but everything had crashed and burned just the same.
But he could hear the pain in her laugh; hollowed and empty, the way he’d often felt, and hadn’t meant to encourage that measure back upon her. Deimos snorted instead, thinking back on those he’d known – Ashamin (promising, and then in the end quite pathetic), Thranduil (good gods why), Sunjata (again – why), and Nate as part of the package deal of stupidity. There were probably others, but cycling within those ranges left him muffling a laugh, until it was freed over the resin of the table. “Maybe you just have horrible taste.” Expecting a slap, pain, or torment in return, he defused the subject matter with another line. “Remind me to tell you of my recent conversations with both of those fools.”
The inquiry thereafter seemed rendered in more professional aspects, and he permitted his thoughts to linger back on routines, on procedures in his everyday life. “I stretch before as well.” And training often was cyclical, rotational, reeling within different muscle groups, striving to ensure each were impacted, honed, and solidified.
The monolith lowered his brow upon his arm again as she praised him, muffling a snort, some manner of self-deprecation, habitual and instinctual, over the lines and tables, over the pine still sticking to his senses. His shoulders appreciated her efforts, flattened out from her measures, a ghost of a sigh waging through, echoing off the surface. “Thank you.” And he was trying, even if it was painstaking, labored, and somewhat torturous. Even if looking within was immensely sharp and brutal. Even if he had to continually face his own dilemmas and sort out the mishaps, the stupidity, and linger upon thresholds he’d avoided far too often. “It would not be fair to place all of my problems on another.” And he hadn’t tried to with either Hotaru or Amalia; but everything had crashed and burned just the same.
But he could hear the pain in her laugh; hollowed and empty, the way he’d often felt, and hadn’t meant to encourage that measure back upon her. Deimos snorted instead, thinking back on those he’d known – Ashamin (promising, and then in the end quite pathetic), Thranduil (good gods why), Sunjata (again – why), and Nate as part of the package deal of stupidity. There were probably others, but cycling within those ranges left him muffling a laugh, until it was freed over the resin of the table. “Maybe you just have horrible taste.” Expecting a slap, pain, or torment in return, he defused the subject matter with another line. “Remind me to tell you of my recent conversations with both of those fools.”
The inquiry thereafter seemed rendered in more professional aspects, and he permitted his thoughts to linger back on routines, on procedures in his everyday life. “I stretch before as well.” And training often was cyclical, rotational, reeling within different muscle groups, striving to ensure each were impacted, honed, and solidified.
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
