DEIMOS
ache first, but then let the cuts close
spit out the blood
spit out the blood
They were both scarred; nature of the world they’d ruled and reigned over, nature of their essences, of their beings. And perhaps they were worn in the same way, some with semblances of pride, others with inward grief, with shackles and tethers and lines drawn around the etched surfaces. In defense, in assault, in protection, in sanctities, in temporary shelters and sanctums for others, and when the tempests ceased, when the burdens broke, they were bleeding and reeling. Everyone else safe, secure.
And who saved them?
How many times had they been towers for others? Battering rams? Swords? Living, breathing weapons? How many times had they bled for another? When did it end and when did it cease and when did anything desist?
He could feel her eyes on him and he looked away, into the fire, into the flames, into the seething maelstrom tucking and gathering itself behind his teeth, behind all those carefully kept ramparts. His attention deviated, head tilted slightly, at the notions of Torchline, safe and sound, for LongNight’s devastation. An explanation for her disappearance, a sickness he’d known well, driven into the parallels and juxtapositions. At the hellhole. At the consuming, swallowing maelstroms. “I asked Ludo if you were in Mort’s realm,” an admittance – and that when he’d known of her survival, that she’d somehow be fine, just as she’d always been, had given him some semblance of relief in the cluster of bedlam and chaos.
Then more – Nate fighting with the rest of the Ascended. Sunjata somehow managing to make his never-ending dramatic life even more so, and so Deimos shook his head once more. Perhaps it was proof to Hotaru’s perseverance, to be able to endure the Flood’s constant catastrophes.
And when it turned back upon him, he heaved another sigh, leaning forward, elbows on legs, palms rubbing at his eyes. Her arm was on his, and it was a balm, but the onslaught of barrages, of revisiting the hells he’d been immersed, drowning, drowning, drowning within. “Kiada died,” which she was aware of; she’d been there, but it set the timeline of domino effects, the trickle of demolition and havoc, the way everything had spun so wildly out of his grasp. “Amalia left me.” And his head hung lower, lower, lower, so that his chin was nearly touching his chest, and if he could’ve escaped somewhere, he would’ve. “I got sick.” Waited to die was left unsaid. Thought about perishing in the snow.
About making everything stop.
“Ended up here. Fought a leviathan.” He was probably forgetting something in between. It was enough anyway.
And who saved them?
How many times had they been towers for others? Battering rams? Swords? Living, breathing weapons? How many times had they bled for another? When did it end and when did it cease and when did anything desist?
He could feel her eyes on him and he looked away, into the fire, into the flames, into the seething maelstrom tucking and gathering itself behind his teeth, behind all those carefully kept ramparts. His attention deviated, head tilted slightly, at the notions of Torchline, safe and sound, for LongNight’s devastation. An explanation for her disappearance, a sickness he’d known well, driven into the parallels and juxtapositions. At the hellhole. At the consuming, swallowing maelstroms. “I asked Ludo if you were in Mort’s realm,” an admittance – and that when he’d known of her survival, that she’d somehow be fine, just as she’d always been, had given him some semblance of relief in the cluster of bedlam and chaos.
Then more – Nate fighting with the rest of the Ascended. Sunjata somehow managing to make his never-ending dramatic life even more so, and so Deimos shook his head once more. Perhaps it was proof to Hotaru’s perseverance, to be able to endure the Flood’s constant catastrophes.
And when it turned back upon him, he heaved another sigh, leaning forward, elbows on legs, palms rubbing at his eyes. Her arm was on his, and it was a balm, but the onslaught of barrages, of revisiting the hells he’d been immersed, drowning, drowning, drowning within. “Kiada died,” which she was aware of; she’d been there, but it set the timeline of domino effects, the trickle of demolition and havoc, the way everything had spun so wildly out of his grasp. “Amalia left me.” And his head hung lower, lower, lower, so that his chin was nearly touching his chest, and if he could’ve escaped somewhere, he would’ve. “I got sick.” Waited to die was left unsaid. Thought about perishing in the snow.
About making everything stop.
“Ended up here. Fought a leviathan.” He was probably forgetting something in between. It was enough anyway.
watch your body pull itself back together
then let your soul do the same
then let your soul do the same
