after fury
what do you do
Softness in the proffering of mutual pains and circumstances, blow upon blow, undulating sighs floating, billowing, and proceeding when continually faced with the unknown, or biting loss. Had it been a first occasion for untimely deaths, the Sword might have been more despondent; numbed long before by the echoes of last breaths, in either this life or the last – now they were like hollowed voids and empty chambers, vessels that once lived and breathed and existed, only to succumb, only to disappear. Funerals; there’d been a mass of them in his time, some monumental and some quiet, lingering on the edges of a battlefield because there were only scarce, fleeting moments to honor and remember, some miserable and quick to dull the anguish, and some he never reached in time, gone, gone, gone, on the wind, on the rain, on the rays of the sun. He clenched his jaw and soaked in her essence, staring forward, eyes focused on outlines of fire and vitriol; pondering the means of this world from all the others. What is the tradition here? Aligning with their customs, ushering in an end to another beginning. Not well enough, but he was from Helovia too. He lived in a different kingdom, called the Dragon’s Throat. One who didn’t begrudge him for the Reaper connotations, who’d known who he was and still smiled, still hastened bright convictions, who understood the weight of all those monstrous factions descending upon them; a constant acrimony, an unwinding hostility, and the Golden Prince designating none of it. He’d waited for the blows. For the snaps of hatred and contempt. They’d never arrived; and then he was suddenly gone. The conversation shifting to Jigano though caused his eyes to meander towards hers, away from the flames, from the demolition, from pending ruin, and back into things he’d already maimed once before. “I did not threaten him.” Jigano wouldn’t know the weight of the monolith’s threat and menacing contributions until it was upon him – warnings and ultimatums, offered once before the slaughter, before the rip, the tear, the opportunities, the chances, gone and vanquished. “I implied he was useless, and said that I would not go with him to the Spire.” It’d been the truth, no matter how cutting, blunt, and keen; the bard had followed through on his jabbing tactics too, neither of them innocent. “We have reconciled,” as best they could; an acceptance of apologies at best, because even the Sword held a grudge.
But it seemed as if she’d had a similar run-in with the Sage, less insults, more of sorrowful, martyr-condoned tactics, furrowing his brows as he listened, as he sought to shake his head at the foolishness of it all. “He has a gift of manipulation. Of altering narratives.” A bard’s weapon; strung along on bits and pieces of the truth and then twisted, turned, back upon the one who’d bothered to say anything against his opinions. Did he try hard to take care of everyone? Deimos’ memories harked back to their abduction and capture in the Greatwood, only Jigano returning, moments in the Spire, collected amidst the vines, other insinuating circumstances intertwined. But why he’d done these things to someone he claimed to care for a great deal – Amalia – sent a new bout of exasperation through his veins, brewing, seething, along marrow, flesh, and bone. “You are not a child, a bad person or a bad friend.” His arms wrapped further, enveloping, seeking to drop his head on top of hers, an anchor, a lifeline, if she required. He’d seen the poise and dignity of her benedictions, had benefitted from the warmth and compassion, amongst and amidst scores of others. “You are allowed to be upset, and so is he. But I have learned anything against his opinion is either met with hostility or dejection.” Maybe Jigano was threatened by her strength. Maybe he didn’t want to be left behind. Maybe there were leagues upon leagues, fathoms upon fathoms, beneath the Sage’s ruminations they hadn’t yet considered or known.
with the remains?
DEIMOS
