DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
The Sword’s words held weight. Maybe because he said so very few of them. Maybe because they were blunt, curt, and to the point. Maybe because there was distinction, truth, veracity, and layers contorted between the phrases and syllables, but he meant each note, each rasp, each grumble. Sometimes they were ominous threats, caught in derision and sedition, warning signs towards those who couldn’t feel the wrath or rage building behind his ruminations. Sometimes they were quiet but no less influential. Sometimes, like now, they were promises and vows, assurances and oaths, of how he would try to muster himself onward, forward, and out of the suffocating wakes he’d mired himself within. At her words, the smile quirked again, a shake of his head only following on the smallest bit of laughter. “Thank you.” Because it did mean something; belief in him, belief in his abilities to alter, however slow.
Another grumble, another sigh, another relaxed, reposed composition layered upon his shoulders as she maneuvered around, as he listened to footsteps, as he was surrounded in pieces of places from other years and other lives. “And what are you going to do for yourself?” Because she could lecture him until the day was long, but Ru had her own worries, her own experiences, her own deviations of hell. Her own time to recover from onslaughts brought on by fools. The beast opened his eyes briefly, staring out across incense and walls, waiting for the answer.
A snort followed her insinuation about replicating them correctly, but it was only a mock offense, rumbles in his throat as he twisted his cranium upright, chin back across forearms. “This has been nice,” he admitted, a bit gruffly, as if it might be followed by a pout.
Another grumble, another sigh, another relaxed, reposed composition layered upon his shoulders as she maneuvered around, as he listened to footsteps, as he was surrounded in pieces of places from other years and other lives. “And what are you going to do for yourself?” Because she could lecture him until the day was long, but Ru had her own worries, her own experiences, her own deviations of hell. Her own time to recover from onslaughts brought on by fools. The beast opened his eyes briefly, staring out across incense and walls, waiting for the answer.
A snort followed her insinuation about replicating them correctly, but it was only a mock offense, rumbles in his throat as he twisted his cranium upright, chin back across forearms. “This has been nice,” he admitted, a bit gruffly, as if it might be followed by a pout.
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
