He refused to fall apart, not here, not now. But the notion bit and tore at him, as muscles burned and maneuvered rocks, as concentration pooled into the abyss, as more and more clarity rippled through unmoving legs and shattered souls. How many times had he seen it for himself – out there on the battlefields, as he dragged comrades out of harm’s way, their limbs incapable of movement, portions severed, no matter, no matter, no matter – and his heart plunged somewhere in the midst. He couldn’t look at anyone. He couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t hear it. Everything was a numbing, embittered, rancorous, unrelenting haze, and he blocked them all, not certain how his features were rendered, not caring if they chiseled despair, if they sculpted anguish, if desperation stung and nettled and thorned, willing to trade positions, willing to wish and pray and mend things away that he had no control over. Deimos was hollow and empty in some of those moments, a vessel of soullessness, digging deep into the vicious trenches walling up over him, threatening to choke, threatening to strangle, threatening to noose and hang. Perhaps he’d let it. Maybe he’d finally let the world consume him, no matter how many damned times he’d stuck his head above the water and strived for the surface. His hands shook and trembled and gave everything away; no need for the masks, no need for the pretenses, done in and haggard.
Because why was it always her? How many times had she sacrificed herself for the many? And what good had it done? What had anything they’d ever tried amounted to?
He could feel Zuriel pulsing back an answer, and he shook his head, reeling, sickened, overcome, overwhelmed, yearning to do something and finding himself shaking, reaching, and then pulling back. He couldn’t even hold her, not until they knew the extent of her injuries. He couldn’t even explain or understand what had happened here, when she’d simply been going to the infirmary, when they’d been only been moving people out of further harm. How had buildings been torn apart? How had she gotten like this?
Someone’s voice, Wessex, pulled away at him, and he lifted his gaze finally, his name somewhere in the throng, before the piercing, anguished shade wandered back over her traces, the unmoving limbs. She didn’t reach for him. Didn’t need him. Useless, useless, useless, not enough anthem staggering back into his senses. Whatever harpsichord rhapsodies and halcyon hours they’d had before seemed to dissolve and flicker apart in a matter of moments, pounding against his head as if they’d all been a hazy, distant dream.
The Sword turned away for a second, only to concoct and build between his palms, a stretcher appearing, trying to do something in the midst of his aching silence, quaking breaths, beseeched havoc, the wreckage pulling over. It sat there on the ground, on the rubble, just another pit and pendulum, and he swiveled back, waiting, waiting, waiting, nothing left of his entity, drained and gone.
Because why was it always her? How many times had she sacrificed herself for the many? And what good had it done? What had anything they’d ever tried amounted to?
He could feel Zuriel pulsing back an answer, and he shook his head, reeling, sickened, overcome, overwhelmed, yearning to do something and finding himself shaking, reaching, and then pulling back. He couldn’t even hold her, not until they knew the extent of her injuries. He couldn’t even explain or understand what had happened here, when she’d simply been going to the infirmary, when they’d been only been moving people out of further harm. How had buildings been torn apart? How had she gotten like this?
Someone’s voice, Wessex, pulled away at him, and he lifted his gaze finally, his name somewhere in the throng, before the piercing, anguished shade wandered back over her traces, the unmoving limbs. She didn’t reach for him. Didn’t need him. Useless, useless, useless, not enough anthem staggering back into his senses. Whatever harpsichord rhapsodies and halcyon hours they’d had before seemed to dissolve and flicker apart in a matter of moments, pounding against his head as if they’d all been a hazy, distant dream.
The Sword turned away for a second, only to concoct and build between his palms, a stretcher appearing, trying to do something in the midst of his aching silence, quaking breaths, beseeched havoc, the wreckage pulling over. It sat there on the ground, on the rubble, just another pit and pendulum, and he swiveled back, waiting, waiting, waiting, nothing left of his entity, drained and gone.
