DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
It is the only way I have ever seen. His mind turned elsewhere, inward, something in the mist and midst of worlds apart from here, or conversations he'd had with a Shield in prior, lighter, happier years – where the viciousness rolled in through muscles and veins, where it was a part of the everyday world. Cretins who stole. Demons who abducted. Murderers who maimed. Torturers who smirked. Treacherous reels of battles cascading and unrelenting savagery hastened from every walk of life – from their deities, from their sights, from their sovereigns, where greed was a part of the background and survival was burned into force, calculations, and derision. Caido could’ve been different, maybe, if history didn’t loom and threaten, didn’t march its way to repeating itself, if cosmic beings could refrain from interfering. But that was already too far gone.
His stare slid back, refocusing on words and words and words, snorting; not disagreeing or aligning with her, but striving to figure where it all fit. Would you rather have no repercussions or consequences at all? And what would that solve? What would that prove? That some people could be walked all over, marred, bludgeoned?
Acceptance of more battles on the way hadn’t been his intention, but maybe it was better off that the discernment was already there. But the soldier and tiger didn’t expect the sudden confession, the marks of history, or the past centered squarely in rooted edges and sentiments. His eyes narrowed briefly again, not combatting it, not bombarding it, but settling in its denizens; accustomed and familiar to the pockets of rage. I have endured war many times. Accustomed life of a warrior, sent to protect the lands he cherished, or the people he’d sworn himself to. He didn’t require the notions of life thereafter – he’d stood along its thresholds, buried his friends – the reasons might’ve been different, but results often the same. Have we not already started as you said? Hunting for relics? Ensuring lands are sworn to their proper gods? But he couldn’t quite fathom where she craved to take this discussion – because the powers that be had already set everything in motion. His head turned back towards her, the tilt of his head indicating curiosity and inquiry, but in the murky haze of confusion alongside it. He didn't know where she was going with it.
His stare slid back, refocusing on words and words and words, snorting; not disagreeing or aligning with her, but striving to figure where it all fit. Would you rather have no repercussions or consequences at all? And what would that solve? What would that prove? That some people could be walked all over, marred, bludgeoned?
Acceptance of more battles on the way hadn’t been his intention, but maybe it was better off that the discernment was already there. But the soldier and tiger didn’t expect the sudden confession, the marks of history, or the past centered squarely in rooted edges and sentiments. His eyes narrowed briefly again, not combatting it, not bombarding it, but settling in its denizens; accustomed and familiar to the pockets of rage. I have endured war many times. Accustomed life of a warrior, sent to protect the lands he cherished, or the people he’d sworn himself to. He didn’t require the notions of life thereafter – he’d stood along its thresholds, buried his friends – the reasons might’ve been different, but results often the same. Have we not already started as you said? Hunting for relics? Ensuring lands are sworn to their proper gods? But he couldn’t quite fathom where she craved to take this discussion – because the powers that be had already set everything in motion. His head turned back towards her, the tilt of his head indicating curiosity and inquiry, but in the murky haze of confusion alongside it. He didn't know where she was going with it.
still standing
not because you can
but because you have to
