DEIMOS
ache first, but then let the cuts close
spit out the blood
spit out the blood
Loneliness had been in the root of his being for a long time – mostly a side effect of losses, casualties, and the way the earth had broken him many times over. Isolation had been far easier after lending his heart out only to watch it become calloused, blackened, scarred, and marred – the incantations running through his blood a worthy excuse, and his shadowy figure nothing more than a piece of marbled weaponry. Helovia and the Basin had been the Reaper’s domain of sacrifice and nothingness, to carve his niche of violence and vehemence because everything else hurt too damn much. Then came Huyana. And Amalia. And he’d tried and he’d tried and it still hadn’t worked. He’d resolved to healing, and to being alone. He’d always been confident in the latter, and horrendous in the former.
To be in the moment – here and now – was leagues and legions of growth and willingness, of change and vulnerability. The exhaustion played along his face, in the furrow of his brow, no mask delivered or cloaked, watching as her hand swept towards his cheek, as the words echoed and bound through the room. Some manner of self-deprecation instantly clung to his tongue, to expel into the void, rather than linger in those threads. Swift denial lingered there too, sticking to his teeth, but only his eyes widened, then flickered downward.
The rush of emotions wasn’t what he expected, and he steeled, forged, them quickly; even then, some still managed to rumble from his throat. “Sometimes I am exactly that.” Cruel. Hardened. Malicious. Cold. Vicious. Capable of great power, precision, and might, all in the name of justice or blood, reveling in vengeance or revenge. However, he didn’t blame her for the call in the middle of the night; for recognizing she’d needed assistance, and uncertain as to what or how. The explanation contorted in his mind – for he’d never placed her in those bounds of presumption, thinking he’d be adept at taking simply because he could. “But I came because I thought you needed help.”
He could argue away the meanings of “good” too – some days were far easier than others to overcome those notions of barreling into nefarious deeds. “I have slain many. But none like Yosef.” Weaponry and bombardments had come towards those across a battlefield, with intent to maim and demolish themselves – mercy hadn’t been on any of their minds. His eyes flickered back towards her, watching, waiting, permitting a slow breath as he wasn’t punished or condemned for utilizing a boundary; for having one at all. “I have not disappointed you, then?” Because he’d become used to that too – inferior and unworthy – of so many damned things. “You are welcome.” Of his presence, of his sanctity and shelter, even if the logic of his morals seemed to skew and divide.
To be in the moment – here and now – was leagues and legions of growth and willingness, of change and vulnerability. The exhaustion played along his face, in the furrow of his brow, no mask delivered or cloaked, watching as her hand swept towards his cheek, as the words echoed and bound through the room. Some manner of self-deprecation instantly clung to his tongue, to expel into the void, rather than linger in those threads. Swift denial lingered there too, sticking to his teeth, but only his eyes widened, then flickered downward.
The rush of emotions wasn’t what he expected, and he steeled, forged, them quickly; even then, some still managed to rumble from his throat. “Sometimes I am exactly that.” Cruel. Hardened. Malicious. Cold. Vicious. Capable of great power, precision, and might, all in the name of justice or blood, reveling in vengeance or revenge. However, he didn’t blame her for the call in the middle of the night; for recognizing she’d needed assistance, and uncertain as to what or how. The explanation contorted in his mind – for he’d never placed her in those bounds of presumption, thinking he’d be adept at taking simply because he could. “But I came because I thought you needed help.”
He could argue away the meanings of “good” too – some days were far easier than others to overcome those notions of barreling into nefarious deeds. “I have slain many. But none like Yosef.” Weaponry and bombardments had come towards those across a battlefield, with intent to maim and demolish themselves – mercy hadn’t been on any of their minds. His eyes flickered back towards her, watching, waiting, permitting a slow breath as he wasn’t punished or condemned for utilizing a boundary; for having one at all. “I have not disappointed you, then?” Because he’d become used to that too – inferior and unworthy – of so many damned things. “You are welcome.” Of his presence, of his sanctity and shelter, even if the logic of his morals seemed to skew and divide.
watch your body pull itself back together
then let your soul do the same
then let your soul do the same
