DEIMOS
Grief was heavy, and he wasn’t arrogant enough to believe he could lift it away. But his strength persisted in the downpour and tempest of her edges, blurring past forces into the bleak and sudden awareness – a cold, laboring strife, heady and heavy, consuming and devouring. He stood above it, just barely, like a monolith and tower, plucking her against his chest and carrying her before the roaring hearth and the pivotal fire. “I know,” he whispered in return, for she didn't have to say any more, tucking her under his chin in the scattered pathways of embers and light; uncertain where to go from here. It had always been easier with onslaughts against the world – he would’ve shouldered it alongside her, breathing flames and scattering death in retribution and damnation – taking lives for lives.
But with nothing to fight except anguish, sometimes it was difficult to struggle at all.
Helovia taught them many things, and Caido too, in turns and revolutions and cycles of what it was like to have and hold and cherish and then simply be incapable of keeping it. Drifting through grasps, no matter how avaricious and wanting, no matter how strong and unrelenting – nothing more than a twist and a turn to find they had naught.
Settling into one of the larger chairs, his arms around her, all he could do was keep his head beyond the water, the waves, the current dragging, dragging, dragging into the abyss, into the fathoms, into other waiting forces. A port in the storm, a calm breath of air, and then the unknown beckoning – because here was a line she’d crossed so many times and he wasn’t certain, wasn’t sure, if she could return from its cold, overwhelming grip. “What do you need?” With no vengeance? With no reprisal?
But with nothing to fight except anguish, sometimes it was difficult to struggle at all.
Helovia taught them many things, and Caido too, in turns and revolutions and cycles of what it was like to have and hold and cherish and then simply be incapable of keeping it. Drifting through grasps, no matter how avaricious and wanting, no matter how strong and unrelenting – nothing more than a twist and a turn to find they had naught.
Settling into one of the larger chairs, his arms around her, all he could do was keep his head beyond the water, the waves, the current dragging, dragging, dragging into the abyss, into the fathoms, into other waiting forces. A port in the storm, a calm breath of air, and then the unknown beckoning – because here was a line she’d crossed so many times and he wasn’t certain, wasn’t sure, if she could return from its cold, overwhelming grip. “What do you need?” With no vengeance? With no reprisal?
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
