DEIMOS
It had been a long while since Deimos had any notion of nothing signified from his name, presence, or existence. He’d been here for years, carved his way through intrepid dares and vicious onslaughts, mired his way through broken crag, and tried to find bits and pieces to hold onto, if only for a moment. Perhaps it was a sense of liberation, in neither having those pre-requisite notions of one another. Naught exchanged in accords of failures, of stupidity, of dreams torn asunder. Left to their own devices, their own pinnacles, rather than the lofty ones carried on backs or shoulders. Just flying. Just rampaging along the winds.No ties. No tethers.
He caught the excitement, the honesty, with some rationale of surprise – mostly because he didn’t reveal himself to strangers so openly as Henry seemed accustomed to doing. And there is always something to escape from volleyed back, pinpointed on himself mostly, meant on an amusing rumble rather than an accusatory tone.
The insinuation, the challenge snapped over his senses thereafter, and the goading had already taken its place in his chest. Too easily coaxed and inveigled into those parameters, the beast didn’t mock, didn’t ridicule, didn’t boast; had no need, when he began to plummet after.
Following, following, following on spirals and coils, descending with complete, utter abandon, for he knew himself, knew his capabilities, knew the touch of irreverence angling its way through his plumage, the wild sedition pressing in on his feathers. The Sword had no intention or inclination to pass the other bird; but his attention became focused on the motions and warren up ahead. What is this?
"who's gonna let you?"
they asked. i said
"who's gonna stop me?"
