DEIMOS
The dead haunted in multitudes and differentiations – sometimes pulsing, pervading amongst the living again, as if they never left, ghosts wailing from across chasms and corridors, stuck in distant, ongoing refrains. Others were around, lilting, languid, restless pieces, like chains, like tethers, like lines, reminders of failures or parting words, quaking, shuddering, last breaths on guttural intonations. Then distinct beacons they lived in the back of minds, carved out memories to savor, to poignancy, to fervor, to anguish and despair upon, guilt eating away at a soul, because one lived and the other did not. This was where most of his resided, occasionally crawling out of their catacombs and sepulchers in his dreams, in his nightmares, wondering why he hadn’t done more to save them, calling and clawing, scratching and ripping, tearing along all those fortifications, all those walls, that he couldn’t embody in the vulnerability of slumber.
But he was awake now – in the darkness, treading through flames, bright, brilliant remembrances of those lost, lost, lost. He honored a few, mused, pondered that perhaps he’d spread the rest of them out of the courses of years and seasons, because there were too many, shards and splinters, fractures and phantoms – the ones not spared, the ones beloved, the ones on his horizon, the ones in his blood.
So it seemed, Kiada shared the same experiences, hanging her lights, her lanterns, only to turn back, to him, as if he were some stalwart beacon in the midnight oils, wrapping herself around him, quaking, shuddering, trembling. The warrior, the Sword, the Reaper, extended his arms around her lithe, little form, pulling her further into his chest, his head up, eyes along the intertwining, blinking chords of embers and follies. Some broken, fallen things had managed to gather more than a few fires; lives that touched, lives that scorched, lives that burned, burned, burned, then extinguished. But hers, like the ones he’d created for his mother, for his father, was alone, bronze, foxes and stones. Deimos’ breath eased, body solid and colossal, a warden, a blackguard, for all her terrors and memories; voice only igniting over the throng when she seemed settled. “Do you want to talk about him?” It was calm, it was composed, because that seemed to be what she needed, what she craved. And if she didn’t yearn to discuss the boy, then the warrior was fine with comfort in silence too.
But he was awake now – in the darkness, treading through flames, bright, brilliant remembrances of those lost, lost, lost. He honored a few, mused, pondered that perhaps he’d spread the rest of them out of the courses of years and seasons, because there were too many, shards and splinters, fractures and phantoms – the ones not spared, the ones beloved, the ones on his horizon, the ones in his blood.
So it seemed, Kiada shared the same experiences, hanging her lights, her lanterns, only to turn back, to him, as if he were some stalwart beacon in the midnight oils, wrapping herself around him, quaking, shuddering, trembling. The warrior, the Sword, the Reaper, extended his arms around her lithe, little form, pulling her further into his chest, his head up, eyes along the intertwining, blinking chords of embers and follies. Some broken, fallen things had managed to gather more than a few fires; lives that touched, lives that scorched, lives that burned, burned, burned, then extinguished. But hers, like the ones he’d created for his mother, for his father, was alone, bronze, foxes and stones. Deimos’ breath eased, body solid and colossal, a warden, a blackguard, for all her terrors and memories; voice only igniting over the throng when she seemed settled. “Do you want to talk about him?” It was calm, it was composed, because that seemed to be what she needed, what she craved. And if she didn’t yearn to discuss the boy, then the warrior was fine with comfort in silence too.
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
