Deimos
THE RESURRECTED SWORD
How did you survive? they ask
How long did you suffer?
how dark did they tint your dreams?Failure after failure caught its lines and tethers on his shoulders, on his chest, on his soul; wore their way into his heart and lungs until everything was encased, shrouded, taut with nefarious iniquities and treacherous vines. So he went alone into voids and abysses with raised hackles and defiant growls, insouciant fire in the depths of his chilling, primordial soul, dashing those who plagued his kingdom on the rocks, delivering his ultimatums and oaths with cold indifference, warning the rest of the world to stay away. Sometimes he’d been utterly useless, ineffectual, the ineptitude rising even as a crown was placed upon his skull, even as he wore down pathlines from summit to border, even as he thrived on savagery and the bitter, twisted unknown, more and more and more isolated and detached as machinations and irreverence blurred, together in barbaric interludes. There’d been no room for faith in the divine, in anyone or anything but himself, undulating muscles and hulking mass striking down on the hearts of those who sought, thought, to ravage and pillage from his kingdom, from his world. It was expected, for his body to be hollowed and his insides to be nonchalant, for his frame to bludgeon, for his swords to plunge deep into another’s – sanctioned, bestial death, fine in the abandonment, thinking of nothing but them and their lost children, their imprisonments, their shackles, their nooses. He didn’t really matter in the end, only to a few, another machine for their protection, a safeguard, a strangling hold on enemies, unaware he was making a pariah of himself. The Reaper will save us and he’d tried, he’d tried, he’d tried for every damned moment of his sovereignty, carrying the weight of the mantle, the diadem, eventually just as soulless as the rest of them – monster and behemoth, infidel and outcast.
That was the way it had always been – solidified in stony features and carved, sculpted armaments; a ghost, a phantom, a wraith of his own making, too far gone to ever reach forward and pull. No one would have bothered. No one would have cared. He’d done the same to some of them: stared, watched, as they wilted and decayed, saying nothing, doing nothing, as howls belittled and distinctions were tossed.
He didn’t want her faith misplaced, didn’t want it wasted, on something, someone, so hopeless.
They will still surged against him, mighty and ferocious, and he couldn’t remember a solid world to stand upon until winter’s breadth closing in on him, the vivid mountains rising to the heavens (not a realm for him, but for auroras, for endless opportunities). Except now he had her, incandescent and dedicated, bold and bright, and he didn’t want to shield his eyes. It didn’t make him less afraid, less terrified, to linger in the presence of suns and moons and stars, but like he could be more –
The notion dangled like a snare, beguiled and allured by it. Instead, he absorbed the steadfast hold of her arms as she wrapped herself around him, vivid reassurance for a being who didn’t know how to receive it, proffering a slow, steady breath in return as his hands clung and his heartbeat thundered, quick and swift and damned, swallowing down the bile cloaking and choking. The beast thought she might be a lifeline, dragging him across Stygian rivers, and he clutched, he grasped, he hid in her, entwined and irreparable, preparing, steeling, and forging himself for the inevitable.
What did he ever deserve but condemnation?
The Sword looked down into the Shield’s eyes, another sigh fading from his chest, all the reassurance and love and pride and adoration for him, an unbelievable insinuation and invocation that he tied himself to – coming apart in her hands, in her gaze. He could feel his walls crumbling and he strived to put them together again, but she was there on his mouth before he could do anything else. The warrior’s gaze, forlorn and desperate, closed at the feel of her, lips stroking and stoking in return, wretched and aflame and gone, so utterly gone and lost and fragmented, split in a catalyst’s wake. Then he leaned in, his forehead against hers, “Okay,” on an echo, on a promise, the dread and apprehension threatening to crawl over him.
That was the way it had always been – solidified in stony features and carved, sculpted armaments; a ghost, a phantom, a wraith of his own making, too far gone to ever reach forward and pull. No one would have bothered. No one would have cared. He’d done the same to some of them: stared, watched, as they wilted and decayed, saying nothing, doing nothing, as howls belittled and distinctions were tossed.
He didn’t want her faith misplaced, didn’t want it wasted, on something, someone, so hopeless.
They will still surged against him, mighty and ferocious, and he couldn’t remember a solid world to stand upon until winter’s breadth closing in on him, the vivid mountains rising to the heavens (not a realm for him, but for auroras, for endless opportunities). Except now he had her, incandescent and dedicated, bold and bright, and he didn’t want to shield his eyes. It didn’t make him less afraid, less terrified, to linger in the presence of suns and moons and stars, but like he could be more –
The notion dangled like a snare, beguiled and allured by it. Instead, he absorbed the steadfast hold of her arms as she wrapped herself around him, vivid reassurance for a being who didn’t know how to receive it, proffering a slow, steady breath in return as his hands clung and his heartbeat thundered, quick and swift and damned, swallowing down the bile cloaking and choking. The beast thought she might be a lifeline, dragging him across Stygian rivers, and he clutched, he grasped, he hid in her, entwined and irreparable, preparing, steeling, and forging himself for the inevitable.
What did he ever deserve but condemnation?
The Sword looked down into the Shield’s eyes, another sigh fading from his chest, all the reassurance and love and pride and adoration for him, an unbelievable insinuation and invocation that he tied himself to – coming apart in her hands, in her gaze. He could feel his walls crumbling and he strived to put them together again, but she was there on his mouth before he could do anything else. The warrior’s gaze, forlorn and desperate, closed at the feel of her, lips stroking and stoking in return, wretched and aflame and gone, so utterly gone and lost and fragmented, split in a catalyst’s wake. Then he leaned in, his forehead against hers, “Okay,” on an echo, on a promise, the dread and apprehension threatening to crawl over him.
- until you had blood glistening on your teeth
- until your suffering paled in comparison to their own
- until you learned to enjoy the sounds of screams
