DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
Though they were numerous, Deimos never forgot his wounds. Never forgot who placed them, how they were earned, how they were considered, and where along the lines they fell apart. Where the stitches once ran, where the lacerations threatened to tear, where every sewn particle marked and etched a line on his skin; ivory and stark, eternally there, over the play of muscle and flesh. And so he wouldn’t be capable of understanding, of comprehending, why those like Hotaru, with their wit, their power, their might, their abilities, their strength, would crawl back to fools who had carelessly, haphazardly ripped into their heart and soul. He couldn’t see why, when they’d proven to be untrustworthy, when they’d promised to alter and change and done anything but, when they opened their mouths and lies poured out. No second chances. No third times the charm. No riddle of rancorous efforts; when an individual displayed their true colors, the hues were enough to assemble his regard.
And he didn’t know how to make her reach those levels either. If it was possible. If it was something she’d want for herself. If it was an adjustment she’d be willing to attempt. Too engrained in his mind from years upon years upon years of throwing himself into fires, of reeling along in battle, of plotting and calculating over an adversary’s tactics, too often emblazoned in the embittered, bitter fringes. Work would keep her busy, certainly, but that was an age-old ritual of his too; too surrounded by everything else to ever think, to ever meander, to ever sink into their own cataclysms. And though he couldn’t see the sadness, the sorrow, the nestling barbs beginning to root themselves within, they’d known each other far too long to not have some inkling of the truth and heart of the matter. “There are far better people here.” Friends. Family. Even if they seemed hardened and worn away too, stubborn, defiant, tenacious, obstinate – blends of fervors and features the Basin had once contorted. Familiar states, individuals who hadn’t tossed her aside for one impulsive act after another. A nudge in the right direction, hopefully, when he had naught else to pin it upon.
The semblance about Midas caused him to snort, shake his head again as he maneuvered limber muscles, walked along the floor. “I still cannot believe he had the gall to die in the Basin.” Which started another small eruption of laughter, something warm and bright despite the subject matter. “Please do. It would give us all a chance to relive what could have been.” Notching an arrow right in between the golden man’s eyes would be nothing short of amusing and delightful.
And then onto more things – distractions and deterrents – following, coordinating his movements to mimic hers.
And he didn’t know how to make her reach those levels either. If it was possible. If it was something she’d want for herself. If it was an adjustment she’d be willing to attempt. Too engrained in his mind from years upon years upon years of throwing himself into fires, of reeling along in battle, of plotting and calculating over an adversary’s tactics, too often emblazoned in the embittered, bitter fringes. Work would keep her busy, certainly, but that was an age-old ritual of his too; too surrounded by everything else to ever think, to ever meander, to ever sink into their own cataclysms. And though he couldn’t see the sadness, the sorrow, the nestling barbs beginning to root themselves within, they’d known each other far too long to not have some inkling of the truth and heart of the matter. “There are far better people here.” Friends. Family. Even if they seemed hardened and worn away too, stubborn, defiant, tenacious, obstinate – blends of fervors and features the Basin had once contorted. Familiar states, individuals who hadn’t tossed her aside for one impulsive act after another. A nudge in the right direction, hopefully, when he had naught else to pin it upon.
The semblance about Midas caused him to snort, shake his head again as he maneuvered limber muscles, walked along the floor. “I still cannot believe he had the gall to die in the Basin.” Which started another small eruption of laughter, something warm and bright despite the subject matter. “Please do. It would give us all a chance to relive what could have been.” Notching an arrow right in between the golden man’s eyes would be nothing short of amusing and delightful.
And then onto more things – distractions and deterrents – following, coordinating his movements to mimic hers.
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
