after fury
what do you do
Broken; weren’t they all a little broken? Cracks and fissures from life’s antics, catastrophes, and despairs? None of them were innocent, they had all delved into some manner of immorality or irreverence, and he bore those marks with every movement, every motion, every breath, a carved, sculpted, and whittled contortion of chiseled anarchy. They bore their fractures, their pains, their agonies, either inward or outward, and if she could accept every damned nuance of his, with its hollowed vitriol, with its pulsing vehemence, with its sometimes disastrous outlook on life, fiends for fiends, demons for demons, then he would do the same for her. He’d borne lifetimes of lesser things, of lesser values, than someone’s heart – but he was willing to strive, willing to attempt. Space for her in his presence, in his existence, eternally open and there, in the proximity and boundaries of his soul, where he could provide whatever she required. Wrapped and tucked and accorded, security and safety within his grasp, a sanctum, a refuge, when once all he’d ever been was the opposite (mayhem and oblivion, trapping, inveigling, ensuring there was a disaster on the horizon and it’d come from their mountains, from their plains, from their valleys, from their grit and teeth). She did not deign to flee again, so he sighed, he breathed a little easier, found the orbits easier to sink into when there wasn’t an imminent evasion; his eyes sliding across their wake while the rest of her found his embrace, both held, both scattered, both entangled; leaning and pressing his wake into hers, a grounding precipice, earthen forms and tangible protection. I am here in no words, in no discourse; the notes and wonder all enshrouded in their beloved motions.
The words thereafter though were stark granules of truth; as much as he’d like to refute them. He probably had once already; in discussions about the Spire, when misunderstandings convoluted and blew up, when his presence of mind hadn’t been on the interpretation or meaning of his words, but a proffering, an extension, of her to come along. He sighed and didn’t negate it either, people hurt each other a little stinging, a little barbed, because of its reflection of truth. He didn’t ponder over the amount of times it had sparked against him; because his notion was to always push and suppress, pretend it didn’t smash against his heart and lungs, a coating of apathy, a wayward claim of indifference, sizzling off into isolation so when he broke apart no one saw and no one cared. “Then we will work on it together.” Another statement of fact to follow hers – better off than searing and smoldering in opposite directions, than blazing and unfurling to other strands, than not saying anything at all, a festering, withering conjecture where everything slowly rotted and died. He’d already done that for what felt like an eternity – watching others leave, watching others go, watching others spark off into the distance; left behind in his shell, along his winter crag.
What he didn’t expect, expanding his arms and making more room for her along his chest, was for her to ask iff he was okay. Because no one ever really did. Because most of the world knew it would be nothing; no feelings, no emotions, naught to spare from his enigmatic grace. The beast repressed those sentiments often, and had to furrow his brows at the question, the answer sadly unknown. He figured at some point all the collections of upheaval would eventually sink and claw at him, and he’d carry on with their misgivings and melancholy; perhaps just as guilty of not sharing his thoughts as she. His gaze maneuvered along the hearth, a shrug, tone rumbling along their threshold, tucked and quiet, just for them. Other than the restlessness, the only thing that had truly affected him was Cera – a swift demise the golden prince hadn’t deserved; a figment of the past simply gone again, roots of other kingdoms died, twisted, and gnarled. “I will be.”
with the remains?
DEIMOS
