D E I M O S
He didn’t say anything, retreating back into his former state: a listener, a witness, the silent observer, examining and scrutinizing, tracing meticulous efforts back into his psyche, where he could repeat them over and over again. Harsh and unfair against the Outlanders was an intriguing start: the hatred and animosity had reached a boiling crescendo, notched for a scarce few, but instigated, incited, upon far more of those gathered, some not even involved. They, those taken and snagged from their homes, from things they knew and understand, dragged to another chaotic embrace, to more kindled ferocity and spite for things they didn’t understand – ignorance went both ways, and harbored, hovered, harpooned somewhere in between. The beast loosened a feral sigh, a memory of those hours drifting by, striving to cut through the tension with quiet appeals, and naught had mattered in the end – the rage and vitriol sputtered out of control, infernos blazing, a conflagration there on the hill, while men died and warriors bled below. Did it even matter anymore – with the world open, with foes vanquished – or was it as Rory had intonated, too brittle, too broken, to proceed without these admonitions or apologies, the regrets built up on stalks and foaming over, brewing, seething, smoldering? “I am not hurt,” the warrior applied, after stalking and meandering in the silence, because it took a lot to sting him now, with his glacial walls and discordant ramparts, the wrapped chords of treachery linked upon his chest, along his undulating muscles, slinking along the core of him, stuck in the middle of conflict. “Rage can instigate many impulsive designs,” and here he arched his brow, the ghost of a smile on his face, apologies absolving the nettles, the thorns, understanding full well the pieces of animosity, rancor, and upheaval, how they gnawed, how they grated, how they ignited even those patient and composed.
He mused for a few moments, gazing at the bubbles drifting by, but not listening to the decibels of laughter from nearby youths, pondering how to partake in his next bout of words, arching a brow, stare lingering on Rory’s tankard, then on the man himself, the slight arching of a brow chiseled on his features: traces of humor despite the rocky, perilous pathways. “But I hope you comprehend that several Outlanders do not encompass every Outlander’s opinion.” They were not all one in the same – a select few didn’t color or lend themselves to the characterization of many; they were unique in opinions, in faults, in flaws, just as the Naturals. The only thing that separated bleeding hearts and fuming lungs was birthright; silly and stupid, inane and ridiculous: because some had come into this world kicking and screaming, straight from their mother’s wombs, and others had been tethered, dragged, and descended here, without cause, without preamble, without knowledge. Perhaps, in a way, they were all ignorant – of the coming days, of the waking hours, of what lay ahead. They could only stumble forward, assisting one another as best they could. They wouldn’t be able to survive another outbreak of rage and vehemence, pitting Naturals against Outlanders, defiant and seditious, revolution taking its toll.
But he accepted – there and then – just as Rory had tolerated his existence within the bakery, turn for turn, knives for knives, intonations for intonations. “I am usually fond of riots and chaos.” The warrior shrugged then again too, feral humor returning. “But I did not have a place in that one.”
