DEIMOS
the ocean does not apologize for its depth
and the mountains do not seek forgiveness
and the mountains do not seek forgiveness
With the thought there, meant to reside and ponder over, Deimos said no more on the subject. A swift nod to indicate understanding, of the need to mull and contemplate, immersed, before swift strides continued to take him around the island.
He did manage a brief smile at her indication of testing, later, when not tethered to two incantations. The monolith had found the concentration and power difficult to maintain when orchestrating more than one as well, especially in the heat of the moment, in the pulse of battle. Often he’d have to prioritize, which left some defenses in the dust, others needing to take up the mantle, or him still managing to do it all while the rest of the world lingered on or watched. “Understandable. Later, then.” A shrug through the shoulders; an arch of his brow.
But the measures of other nuances, like joy, were far less easier for him to understand. Perhaps it was because he’d had so little of the emotion: like passing ships in the night. He was a being perfectly capable of mischief, of boyish elation, of hope and faith and merriment, but they were the first to go the second anguish and despair assaulted. And it did so often that they were carried off without much thought; while he sunk down into torment and torture, into self-loathing and sedition. The Sword had been working on it; on loosening the strands and tethers of those debacles, of overcoming places and people and fragments he’d lost over and over and over again, but each time it took more willpower. More strength, more fortitude, more might, to not linger below the surface and permit himself to drown.
His piercing gaze angled towards the stars instead, and he wondered if they were mocking him; out of reach. “Perhaps,” he answered at first, features flattening into something nonchalant; residual factors when he was at a loss. A snort followed through, striving to twist and turn it into a self-deprecating semblance, instead of the inward glances. “People have seemed content with their weapons and armor.”
He did manage a brief smile at her indication of testing, later, when not tethered to two incantations. The monolith had found the concentration and power difficult to maintain when orchestrating more than one as well, especially in the heat of the moment, in the pulse of battle. Often he’d have to prioritize, which left some defenses in the dust, others needing to take up the mantle, or him still managing to do it all while the rest of the world lingered on or watched. “Understandable. Later, then.” A shrug through the shoulders; an arch of his brow.
But the measures of other nuances, like joy, were far less easier for him to understand. Perhaps it was because he’d had so little of the emotion: like passing ships in the night. He was a being perfectly capable of mischief, of boyish elation, of hope and faith and merriment, but they were the first to go the second anguish and despair assaulted. And it did so often that they were carried off without much thought; while he sunk down into torment and torture, into self-loathing and sedition. The Sword had been working on it; on loosening the strands and tethers of those debacles, of overcoming places and people and fragments he’d lost over and over and over again, but each time it took more willpower. More strength, more fortitude, more might, to not linger below the surface and permit himself to drown.
His piercing gaze angled towards the stars instead, and he wondered if they were mocking him; out of reach. “Perhaps,” he answered at first, features flattening into something nonchalant; residual factors when he was at a loss. A snort followed through, striving to twist and turn it into a self-deprecating semblance, instead of the inward glances. “People have seemed content with their weapons and armor.”
for the space they take
and so, neither shall I
and so, neither shall I
