DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
The apology might have been there, but his irritation failed to abate, pressing in through the hollows of his mind; cataclysm after cataclysm, derailment after derailment. And he did feel like a bystander in all of it, standing and pacing amidst a flurry of movement and motion that superseded and overrode everything they’d already worked on. Machinations and calculations aside, there was flexibility to be had, but for the moment the Sword was an unyielding torrent, furrowed brows, clenched jaws, explanations that had no meaning because they’d already been tossed out into the melee. “You can?” His piercing eyes rounded back on her, stormy, glacial, vexed. Perhaps she’d forgotten how he’d willingly confessed his crimes, lost his position, and never incriminated her to ensure she had more time. Except the current dilemma wasn’t anything great or grand, and what she’d done with it left pieces and pockets of convoluted confusion and melodrama. “And what am I in the schemes now? The one who hears everything last?”
Maybe she didn’t think him capable. Maybe he was misconstrued in that sense too. Maybe he was just muscle and might and strength, and that was all. Maybe that’s what he’d been made for, in everyone’s god damned eyes. No input. No decrees. Bow his head and march down the lane.
The vexation rolled off his shoulders in waves; no use in ceasing them when she’d feel it – loud and clear. His pacing ceased only after he’d grabbed a piece of paper and pencil, and barely refrained from slamming it into the table. “Of course not. Always one step ahead,” he murmured and growled, low and facetious, sardonic and rancorous. “I was taught not to underestimate my enemies. Do not let your arrogance be your downfall.” After all; she’d already believed herself above their means and measures. But there were no guarantees, obvious and momentous based on just these singular moments; cast off in lies built upon lies. When would that tower topple? What did they have scheming in Torchline? How was he noticed, when he’d been cloaked a majority of the time? “And who was this witness? I saw no one from my portions.”
He began to sketch out an entirely new design, starting with rows upon rows of ice, dragged across the page boldly, pouring his indignation into the pencil lead. He didn’t look at her. “While you are there, you may see the new Arbiter – alive and well, apparently.” No meaning to that vengeance either.
Maybe she didn’t think him capable. Maybe he was misconstrued in that sense too. Maybe he was just muscle and might and strength, and that was all. Maybe that’s what he’d been made for, in everyone’s god damned eyes. No input. No decrees. Bow his head and march down the lane.
The vexation rolled off his shoulders in waves; no use in ceasing them when she’d feel it – loud and clear. His pacing ceased only after he’d grabbed a piece of paper and pencil, and barely refrained from slamming it into the table. “Of course not. Always one step ahead,” he murmured and growled, low and facetious, sardonic and rancorous. “I was taught not to underestimate my enemies. Do not let your arrogance be your downfall.” After all; she’d already believed herself above their means and measures. But there were no guarantees, obvious and momentous based on just these singular moments; cast off in lies built upon lies. When would that tower topple? What did they have scheming in Torchline? How was he noticed, when he’d been cloaked a majority of the time? “And who was this witness? I saw no one from my portions.”
He began to sketch out an entirely new design, starting with rows upon rows of ice, dragged across the page boldly, pouring his indignation into the pencil lead. He didn’t look at her. “While you are there, you may see the new Arbiter – alive and well, apparently.” No meaning to that vengeance either.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
