DEIMOS
the ocean does not apologize for its depth
and the mountains do not seek forgiveness
and the mountains do not seek forgiveness
Aisha’s insights and inquiries were fair – machinations he would’ve calculated and conjured at some point, had he not already been so immersed in the thresholds. Maybe they were merely fodder, another round of mortals meant to make up the armies, the might, the menace, a generation of fools, tyrants, and believers. Perhaps it was a cyclical act, and they were striving to overcome the notions of it ever occurring again, trying to break apart history’s chains. Or it was none of those things, and merely greed, merely happenstance, merely a formation of all these other angles coming to fruition, binding together in a threatening, vehement loop; nooses for all. Spine now straight, his eyes lingered over the edges of the Citadel walls, out along the plains of ice and rime, raising the glass to his mouth, swallowing more of the liquid before continuing. “From the little I understand of it, the Voice became too powerful.” And so other things had to happen, had to coincide; locked away in the barrier of the Grounds for hundreds of years.
And now here they were.
A grunt of agreement coiled through him on her herald presumptions; at the very least she’d be able to garnish something else for a response. Judge on her own knowledge. Surmise something from those granules, rather than secondhand sagacities. “Which one will you try first?” And as long as she wasn’t cursed again, everything would probably be fine.
The long silence thereafter his statements about choice and control told him not to push, not to pressure, not to continue in its subject line; the shield would need her own wiles, her own thoughts, her own modicums to formulate where she’d pondered and wondered. It wasn’t an easy decision, and if he hadn’t been thrown into other pathways, other alterations, other manifestations for so long, the Sword might’ve taken a vastly different approach too.
But the quiet was broken apart by her words, by his resounding laugh to follow, the glasses clinking, the chuckle reverberating while he refilled her cup. “I have always been sentimental.” His nose wrinkled, boyish and juvenile again, finally over the walls of nonchalant, reticent masks. “I just do not tell any of you.” Instead, it came out in his creations: in the little works of art amidst the weapons and adornments he concocted for those he cherished.
And now here they were.
A grunt of agreement coiled through him on her herald presumptions; at the very least she’d be able to garnish something else for a response. Judge on her own knowledge. Surmise something from those granules, rather than secondhand sagacities. “Which one will you try first?” And as long as she wasn’t cursed again, everything would probably be fine.
The long silence thereafter his statements about choice and control told him not to push, not to pressure, not to continue in its subject line; the shield would need her own wiles, her own thoughts, her own modicums to formulate where she’d pondered and wondered. It wasn’t an easy decision, and if he hadn’t been thrown into other pathways, other alterations, other manifestations for so long, the Sword might’ve taken a vastly different approach too.
But the quiet was broken apart by her words, by his resounding laugh to follow, the glasses clinking, the chuckle reverberating while he refilled her cup. “I have always been sentimental.” His nose wrinkled, boyish and juvenile again, finally over the walls of nonchalant, reticent masks. “I just do not tell any of you.” Instead, it came out in his creations: in the little works of art amidst the weapons and adornments he concocted for those he cherished.
for the space they take
and so, neither shall I
and so, neither shall I
