DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
Deimos clung to other things: violence, vehemence, vengeance, and a steadfast amount of armor that guarded him so well that he couldn’t even fathom the filaments that bounded off of it. The moments lost because of the walls. Perceptions skewed and altered because he’d been drowned and immersed in loss too many times, and was so tired of trying to pick himself out of the rubble. Far easier to sink, rather than beg and plead for something else. Far easier to be tossed aside, rather than reach out and say what he needed. Disastrous in his own way – a deficiency scourging and consuming over the remains of adversaries and enemies, and forgoing anything else he required. Because some days he’d convinced himself that it was fine to survive on the fringes of a battlefield, as if he was always fighting, always bleeding, always dying, than admit what else had been broken along the folds and seams, amidst the bones and flesh. A path he struggled not to traverse down – trying to see the other roots and vestiges, forging onward, to new, foreign trails.
But her whisper lingered in the midst, and his eyes narrowed, unaware of what lines he was treading within now. Frustration for her, and her unfortunate circumstances with soul after soul, moron after moron, dunce after dunce, cornered around him, squared his shoulders, and a sigh filtered through. “I do not think it is a flaw to want to be loved.” His head tilted, inclined back in her direction, stare lingering somewhere along the ceiling, before resting on hers – shaking his cranium again in brotherly affection. “I just do not understand why you pick the ones that hurt you.” When she knew, deep down or even on the surface, what fools they were.
But then again, he rarely gave himself over to anyone – and look where it’d gotten him.
Onto better, more amusing things, while he pierced back into motion, following steps and stretches, repeating them throughout movements, intending to labor them into muscle memory. The shape of his smile returned, followed by a snort, at the notions of where Midas had fallen, all the blame ricocheting upon them for the golden man’s idiocies, and the way the Falls had been conquered in one fell swoop. “A mere doodle would satisfy, I think.” The Cheshire grin rallied, imagining the portrait with a stupefied, bewildering look. “Missing teeth. Big nose.”
But her whisper lingered in the midst, and his eyes narrowed, unaware of what lines he was treading within now. Frustration for her, and her unfortunate circumstances with soul after soul, moron after moron, dunce after dunce, cornered around him, squared his shoulders, and a sigh filtered through. “I do not think it is a flaw to want to be loved.” His head tilted, inclined back in her direction, stare lingering somewhere along the ceiling, before resting on hers – shaking his cranium again in brotherly affection. “I just do not understand why you pick the ones that hurt you.” When she knew, deep down or even on the surface, what fools they were.
But then again, he rarely gave himself over to anyone – and look where it’d gotten him.
Onto better, more amusing things, while he pierced back into motion, following steps and stretches, repeating them throughout movements, intending to labor them into muscle memory. The shape of his smile returned, followed by a snort, at the notions of where Midas had fallen, all the blame ricocheting upon them for the golden man’s idiocies, and the way the Falls had been conquered in one fell swoop. “A mere doodle would satisfy, I think.” The Cheshire grin rallied, imagining the portrait with a stupefied, bewildering look. “Missing teeth. Big nose.”
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
