DEIMOS
Quick solutions rarely came to wondrous fruition; he’d seen the truth of it in short-sighted decisions, in impulsive motions, in blowing apart an empty building, in watching the seeds of destruction sewn, but not achieve anything. One of the few times he’d ever not plotted tactics or maneuvers, and it had split him into frayed seams and strands. Only rendered vast consequences on his proportions; delivered a warning, a message, of power, of danger, of deceit, but to what point? To what end? A burnt guildhouse, a dead companion, and the inability to see the sea.
He breathed a vast inhale too, but assured it didn’t taste like ash or smoke, Air billowing, flaring, rapid and sure. Deep into his lungs, where he could form something that made sense. “Perhaps you can guide them that way, but only if they are willing too. It cannot be just for your satisfaction.” Or to ensure her own worth. Difficult lessons, answers she might not like, might not adhere to, and a forged contribution of his own faults and parallels; believing his existence sometimes only endured to ensure others could do the same. For safety, for protection, for defenses, for weaponry – but the Sword was steadily learning he could be far more than armaments and munitions, even if it was the stance he so often took. Even now, General again, sworn protector of an icy world that teetered on self-reflection, doubts, and misgivings; where his power could rend and destroy, or aid and provide.
He snorted at the basket suddenly appearing, but said nothing, taking it in his hands, lifting the pulp to begin collecting at the bottom of the woven, wicker proportions. Safrin’s blunt truths echoed, and he knew the weight of them, had similar vestiges mauled in his direction, contemplating all the while during movements and motions. “It could be by distraction. By finding something they enjoy. Listening to their worries, allowing them to vent. But that does not mean you take it all on yourself.” The seeds were scattered on top, a decent proportion, though he glanced at the wake, wondered if they needed more. “Or instilling faith.” A shrug of his shoulders; because that had always been something he’d had so little of: in himself, in the world, struggling to understand it even years into living here. Why Amalia had given him the bloom of lavender with her beliefs instilled; an item he hadn’t looked upon since they broke apart. Why he had to find and drag the semblances out of his own soul. “There is always going to be darkness here. Especially with war coming.” Tensions rising. Looming. The pressure of time. Of strength and dominion, of where allies fell and flickered, of where adversaries rankled. "And sometimes the solutions are not simple. Or there. Or ready."
The Sword lifted the seeds she ducked around, placing them in the basket too, and then furrowed his brows, knowing full well he wasn’t the best person to be delivering any of this advice. “You cannot give when you are empty.” He’d know. He tried it all the god damned time. “Find what makes you happy too. And do not let that pressure compound. I doubt your mother made the wrong decision,” a snort, a laugh, following through. All easier said than done; rallying efforts he employed, and failed with, often.
He breathed a vast inhale too, but assured it didn’t taste like ash or smoke, Air billowing, flaring, rapid and sure. Deep into his lungs, where he could form something that made sense. “Perhaps you can guide them that way, but only if they are willing too. It cannot be just for your satisfaction.” Or to ensure her own worth. Difficult lessons, answers she might not like, might not adhere to, and a forged contribution of his own faults and parallels; believing his existence sometimes only endured to ensure others could do the same. For safety, for protection, for defenses, for weaponry – but the Sword was steadily learning he could be far more than armaments and munitions, even if it was the stance he so often took. Even now, General again, sworn protector of an icy world that teetered on self-reflection, doubts, and misgivings; where his power could rend and destroy, or aid and provide.
He snorted at the basket suddenly appearing, but said nothing, taking it in his hands, lifting the pulp to begin collecting at the bottom of the woven, wicker proportions. Safrin’s blunt truths echoed, and he knew the weight of them, had similar vestiges mauled in his direction, contemplating all the while during movements and motions. “It could be by distraction. By finding something they enjoy. Listening to their worries, allowing them to vent. But that does not mean you take it all on yourself.” The seeds were scattered on top, a decent proportion, though he glanced at the wake, wondered if they needed more. “Or instilling faith.” A shrug of his shoulders; because that had always been something he’d had so little of: in himself, in the world, struggling to understand it even years into living here. Why Amalia had given him the bloom of lavender with her beliefs instilled; an item he hadn’t looked upon since they broke apart. Why he had to find and drag the semblances out of his own soul. “There is always going to be darkness here. Especially with war coming.” Tensions rising. Looming. The pressure of time. Of strength and dominion, of where allies fell and flickered, of where adversaries rankled. "And sometimes the solutions are not simple. Or there. Or ready."
The Sword lifted the seeds she ducked around, placing them in the basket too, and then furrowed his brows, knowing full well he wasn’t the best person to be delivering any of this advice. “You cannot give when you are empty.” He’d know. He tried it all the god damned time. “Find what makes you happy too. And do not let that pressure compound. I doubt your mother made the wrong decision,” a snort, a laugh, following through. All easier said than done; rallying efforts he employed, and failed with, often.
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
