DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
“Exactly.” Losses for the fools, and gains for those discarded. A harmful edge at first; to be cast, to be shattered, to be tossed so blatantly aside – but then all the better for it, eventually, eventually, eventually, when the mending was done and the healing complete, when they could raise their heads in more than just defiance and sedition. In time, in measures, in tending to what they needed and required, instead of all the other proportions and people who’d drained their souls. No more, no more, no more; and it was a promise in the back of his mind as much for him as it was for her. None of these mired, wounding tethers any longer; casting the shadows, the doubts, aloft and away.
Besides, he would much rather envision dummies of Midas and the whole motley crew of adversaries they’d once gathered. “It would,” he agreed, taking on the aspects of more mischief, more devilry, not to be confined, outdone, or out-measured. He continued, striving as best he could, with the exercises, making them routine while he laughed, while it echoed and rumbled, resounded and reverberated. A favored sound, rather than all their quiet angst and melancholy. “And when they are completely pummeled, we can throw them off the Citadel wall.” Had he dreamed of doing that to some poor, stupid, idiotic soul? Yes; and perhaps it’d be even better with the effigies of morons instead, so they could laugh and chuckle and dream of better years and moments, as the image of their enemies were hurtled downward into nothingness.
Besides, he would much rather envision dummies of Midas and the whole motley crew of adversaries they’d once gathered. “It would,” he agreed, taking on the aspects of more mischief, more devilry, not to be confined, outdone, or out-measured. He continued, striving as best he could, with the exercises, making them routine while he laughed, while it echoed and rumbled, resounded and reverberated. A favored sound, rather than all their quiet angst and melancholy. “And when they are completely pummeled, we can throw them off the Citadel wall.” Had he dreamed of doing that to some poor, stupid, idiotic soul? Yes; and perhaps it’d be even better with the effigies of morons instead, so they could laugh and chuckle and dream of better years and moments, as the image of their enemies were hurtled downward into nothingness.
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
