DEIMOS
ache first, but then let the cuts close
spit out the blood
spit out the blood
Calm and compliant, ready and willing and able; justifications of lives long-forged in waiting. In watching, In conspiring. In patience fused with fortitude, so the might and menace had a place to curl and contort, so the Machiavellian moments had their aptitude, so the resolve had options. The first surprise though, by show of his raised brows and widened eyes, was that her admittance of his vengeful tactics might be required. Did this mean she was unwilling to do it on her own? Or something else? Deeper? More painful?
He gave no answer yet – but stole a breath for her on another sharp inhale, and waited for the pieces to come together.
And so they did, in perhaps one of the wildest stories he’d ever heard. His hands held hers as she poured out her heart, as a range of emotions (contempt, mostly, for the being who has instigated all of this nonsense) quietly sunk into his normal reticence. LongNight’s press had apparently been far more overbearing, overwhelming, amongst the beaches and sands, nodding at the known prowess of Vai (the first one to tell him he couldn’t be healed by ordinary, magical means), the injuries, the justification of Remi and Ronin storming in. Whether or not he agreed with their sentiments didn’t scarcely matter; the tale unfurled further and further, until he had to wonder how the hell Sunjata maintained any power at all, when he could barely control himself. When everything haphazard and stupefying, bewildering and astounding, happened to fall upon him. Harpooned and beleaguered. Measured and weighed. Easy to calculate and manipulate. Pickings and fodder for his own father, and for Safrin.
At the mention of her inability to help, his fingers enveloped over hers, and gave them a gentle squeeze. He did know better, far better, than most, and Sunjata’s ignorance of the Valkyrie’s abilities would, could, be yet another downfall. There, a low rumble began in his throat, immersed from his chest, a grating sort of harshness in the annals of truth and veracity. “You will never mean nothing. You must know that.” But there she was, tossed aside again, and his expression softened, all too briefly, before it slowly began to chip and carve away into contemptuous angles again. What his enemies might’ve seen right before an ominous plunge of his blade – when the indifference, reticence, and apathy was gone, and in its place was just a cold, chilling dominion of persecution and devastation.
Nate kidnapped. Home destroyed. Sunjata disappeared and unfortunately risen once more from the waves. A seemingly endless saga, and how it had only taken place over one season was appalling.
His calloused palms were still for her when she mentioned the children, and the monolith could recall her series of offspring. The love she had for them. The affection and strength and dominion. That they’d been planning. And that it scarcely seemed to matter. And while her nails pulled at his flesh, he braced, unfolding only so she had opportunity to escape in her frustrations, in her anger. No marks, nothing worth mentioning. A taking of her anguish, if only for a moment.
The indication, however, that Nate was a new demigod, forged by the Voice, left some sickening plunge in the back of his throat.
And then a child of Safrin and Sunjata.
The Sword’s gaze went to her at the notion of the fool’s betrayal. Of her shattered dreams. Of a youth destined to be brought forth on deals and trades (and how could they occur, how they could be accomplished – how could Nate even be saved when his soul was already taken?), and not her own.
A length of pride sauntered across his mouth though when she described her efforts – a stabbing. He could imagine her undiminished anger, the ferocity, the spirit of animosity for every other stupid, idiotic thing the Flood had ever done – and then the lightest of disappointments when it was not to be.
So Deimos took her in his arms and placed her across his chest, where restless, antagonized heartbeats could rest for a moment, where he could encircle and comfort and process. It took him a few moments, mind whirling with the possibilities, with the words, with the effort of resolving not to immediately leave and finish what he’d started on the beach. Or along the hunt, where he’d promised to annihilate and brutalize should anything happen again. And here they were. This wasn’t a place for his anger – tempting as it was – not when Hotaru required his support. So he'd start at the source.
“I will never understand your affection for that imbecile.” And he’d told her before, in between her tears, her strife, her loss over this dumb, foolish, stupid man, that he hadn’t deserved her. Yet, in some repeated, ridiculous crescendo, she followed the lure like so many others. Damned and doomed in Sunjata's wake of crowning delusions and dense, vapid, vacuous measures. “Why would you want to stay?” He shook his cranium, cradled her head into the crook of his shoulder and brawn, and sighed. The bottom of his jaw settled on top of her blonde hair for a moment, pondering all the while. “When has he ever shown you he is worth it?”
He gave no answer yet – but stole a breath for her on another sharp inhale, and waited for the pieces to come together.
And so they did, in perhaps one of the wildest stories he’d ever heard. His hands held hers as she poured out her heart, as a range of emotions (contempt, mostly, for the being who has instigated all of this nonsense) quietly sunk into his normal reticence. LongNight’s press had apparently been far more overbearing, overwhelming, amongst the beaches and sands, nodding at the known prowess of Vai (the first one to tell him he couldn’t be healed by ordinary, magical means), the injuries, the justification of Remi and Ronin storming in. Whether or not he agreed with their sentiments didn’t scarcely matter; the tale unfurled further and further, until he had to wonder how the hell Sunjata maintained any power at all, when he could barely control himself. When everything haphazard and stupefying, bewildering and astounding, happened to fall upon him. Harpooned and beleaguered. Measured and weighed. Easy to calculate and manipulate. Pickings and fodder for his own father, and for Safrin.
At the mention of her inability to help, his fingers enveloped over hers, and gave them a gentle squeeze. He did know better, far better, than most, and Sunjata’s ignorance of the Valkyrie’s abilities would, could, be yet another downfall. There, a low rumble began in his throat, immersed from his chest, a grating sort of harshness in the annals of truth and veracity. “You will never mean nothing. You must know that.” But there she was, tossed aside again, and his expression softened, all too briefly, before it slowly began to chip and carve away into contemptuous angles again. What his enemies might’ve seen right before an ominous plunge of his blade – when the indifference, reticence, and apathy was gone, and in its place was just a cold, chilling dominion of persecution and devastation.
Nate kidnapped. Home destroyed. Sunjata disappeared and unfortunately risen once more from the waves. A seemingly endless saga, and how it had only taken place over one season was appalling.
His calloused palms were still for her when she mentioned the children, and the monolith could recall her series of offspring. The love she had for them. The affection and strength and dominion. That they’d been planning. And that it scarcely seemed to matter. And while her nails pulled at his flesh, he braced, unfolding only so she had opportunity to escape in her frustrations, in her anger. No marks, nothing worth mentioning. A taking of her anguish, if only for a moment.
The indication, however, that Nate was a new demigod, forged by the Voice, left some sickening plunge in the back of his throat.
And then a child of Safrin and Sunjata.
The Sword’s gaze went to her at the notion of the fool’s betrayal. Of her shattered dreams. Of a youth destined to be brought forth on deals and trades (and how could they occur, how they could be accomplished – how could Nate even be saved when his soul was already taken?), and not her own.
A length of pride sauntered across his mouth though when she described her efforts – a stabbing. He could imagine her undiminished anger, the ferocity, the spirit of animosity for every other stupid, idiotic thing the Flood had ever done – and then the lightest of disappointments when it was not to be.
So Deimos took her in his arms and placed her across his chest, where restless, antagonized heartbeats could rest for a moment, where he could encircle and comfort and process. It took him a few moments, mind whirling with the possibilities, with the words, with the effort of resolving not to immediately leave and finish what he’d started on the beach. Or along the hunt, where he’d promised to annihilate and brutalize should anything happen again. And here they were. This wasn’t a place for his anger – tempting as it was – not when Hotaru required his support. So he'd start at the source.
“I will never understand your affection for that imbecile.” And he’d told her before, in between her tears, her strife, her loss over this dumb, foolish, stupid man, that he hadn’t deserved her. Yet, in some repeated, ridiculous crescendo, she followed the lure like so many others. Damned and doomed in Sunjata's wake of crowning delusions and dense, vapid, vacuous measures. “Why would you want to stay?” He shook his cranium, cradled her head into the crook of his shoulder and brawn, and sighed. The bottom of his jaw settled on top of her blonde hair for a moment, pondering all the while. “When has he ever shown you he is worth it?”
watch your body pull itself back together
then let your soul do the same
then let your soul do the same
