DEIMOS
ache first, but then let the cuts close
spit out the blood
spit out the blood
Perhaps it was some semblance of liberation. A deliverance, a repose, a peace in the quandaries, in the quagmires, of doubt, alterations, and change. Deimos hadn’t truly been given a choice in his – but Hotaru had, and here she could begin to stitch the seams, undo the fraying strands, snip off the ones that would go nowhere. There were more things to do, to forge along, to begin the knots of ferocity all over again. Different circumstances and different worlds they might’ve been, but the way chaos unraveled, the way monsters glorified, the way gods beckoned and battled, held striking similarities.
He nearly laughed at her agreement, but choked it down and notched it tightly in his chest. May she take satisfaction in ripping the Flood away from her, may she take glory in the way she could conquer the waves. Be more than the weight of him pulling her down, down, down.
The Sword muffled a self-deprecating tone or joke at the next set of vocals. A part of him didn’t want to believe it. It was easier, far, far easier, to simply remain in the toils of his loathing, of his errors, of his mistakes, of his flaws. There were many. They were numerous. They maintained their defiant chords all over the surface of his soul, and lingered towards the bottom too, inward and across scars that weren’t immediately visible. Deimos had always maintained them well – through his anger and vehemence, through his misgivings and silence. But what would it be like to believe her sentiments? A half-smile curled its way there again, on the edges of his mouth, as the sullen sigh wafted through. There would be no chiding of the Shield; not from him. “Thank you,” applied instead, as he tried to form a way to considering the confidences.
Then the monolith listened – the same forged apprehension beginning in his lungs, in his ribs, that he’d been ignoring for a long time. “She has astounding speed. New armor.” And more to come – growing as they all did within the boundaries of Caido. Given enough time. Given enough effort. He hadn’t been around for Kisamoa, but Kiada had told him the stories, and it made an impression on him now too, in the way that he squeezed her hand back, a strangled worry curling through his fingertips. “I will do the best I can, but I intend to help destroy the Voice.” Lines drawn. They’d done it before, and they’d do it again. Where would Hotaru be? How would it affect Kiada? Would they have to face the same sort of decisions and choices that Sunjata had – in that loved ones were due to be on opposite ends?
He nearly laughed at her agreement, but choked it down and notched it tightly in his chest. May she take satisfaction in ripping the Flood away from her, may she take glory in the way she could conquer the waves. Be more than the weight of him pulling her down, down, down.
The Sword muffled a self-deprecating tone or joke at the next set of vocals. A part of him didn’t want to believe it. It was easier, far, far easier, to simply remain in the toils of his loathing, of his errors, of his mistakes, of his flaws. There were many. They were numerous. They maintained their defiant chords all over the surface of his soul, and lingered towards the bottom too, inward and across scars that weren’t immediately visible. Deimos had always maintained them well – through his anger and vehemence, through his misgivings and silence. But what would it be like to believe her sentiments? A half-smile curled its way there again, on the edges of his mouth, as the sullen sigh wafted through. There would be no chiding of the Shield; not from him. “Thank you,” applied instead, as he tried to form a way to considering the confidences.
Then the monolith listened – the same forged apprehension beginning in his lungs, in his ribs, that he’d been ignoring for a long time. “She has astounding speed. New armor.” And more to come – growing as they all did within the boundaries of Caido. Given enough time. Given enough effort. He hadn’t been around for Kisamoa, but Kiada had told him the stories, and it made an impression on him now too, in the way that he squeezed her hand back, a strangled worry curling through his fingertips. “I will do the best I can, but I intend to help destroy the Voice.” Lines drawn. They’d done it before, and they’d do it again. Where would Hotaru be? How would it affect Kiada? Would they have to face the same sort of decisions and choices that Sunjata had – in that loved ones were due to be on opposite ends?
watch your body pull itself back together
then let your soul do the same
then let your soul do the same
