Change everything you are and everything you were
Your number has been called
His expectations were low – he’d seen this before, in some way, shape, or form, pressures of the battlefield when eventually it just became another onslaught, another moment in the backdrop, to watch another fall, crumble, another friend hastened to the slaughter, towards oblivion, well before he could ever reach them. He’d fought tooth and nail for all of them once, upon daises of war, fleeting trumpets and howls slowly turning to feral screams of pain, of terror, and little to no triumph in between. Watching them break apart, listening to final breaths, to the gurgle in throats, to the rasping reels of agony, had been little more than torture, why he’d grown detached, why eventually, everything seared and simmered away, away, away from him – apathy in the face of demise, because he thought it might be easier to bear death’s claws, death’s scythe, by hardening, by forging steel upon stone, barbarity pressed within bones and flesh. And all these damned people accepted him anyway, cherished and loved and devoted and even if he couldn’t understand it, couldn’t believe it, couldn’t fathom it, he thawed, melted, and did the same.
So when Remi descended, collapsing, faltering, and stumbling, the general rushed forward to help and assist, those days spent amongst the dying, the shredded, the torn asunder allowing his form to simply move without preamble, without calculation, without prelude. He’d done this before. He’d done this far too many times to count. He’d done this and this and this and then buried them on the sidelines, stained in dirt, mud, and their blood. Except, the depths of his gaze fell upon someone familiar, someone known, someone revered, admired, loved, and the nefarious intricacies of his heart burst, plummeted into his ribs, ricocheted and bounded against his lungs.
Rexanna.
There was a mind-numbing moment where he felt like he was watching from somewhere far, far away, adrift on the clouds or in the Stygian abyss, confused, perplexed, uncertain who was in his form or what was happening. That couldn’t be Rex; there were portions and pieces of her missing.
Except those stunned motions left him quickly, swiftly, (her – his Thief, his friend, his family) and his form already bent towards her, arms extended, no questions asked, no inquiries prospered, not a single sound leaving his damned mouth. Muted far more than normal, he wasn’t certain if he was even breathing, the spiraling acrimony and twisted barbarity annihilating junctures of his soul – this wasn’t right, this wasn’t fair, but the injustices were well worn and presumed, they both understood the way earth shaped their moments and shards. In another life, the Reaper would’ve scalded, brutalized, and followed the wayward path of whoever had done this to her. They would have died, slowly, piece by piece, tissue and fibers, marrow and muscle, torn away from their skeleton until they were a screaming carcass. The world wouldn’t have dared. The world would’ve paid.
Here, he was the Sword, and he could only fight, could only defend, could only be something so much more minimal. “Rexanna,” he whispered and his voice cracked, a hint, an inclination of everything else fissuring within him. Not again. I cannot do this again.
Careful, gentle, as best as the monolith could with her protruding beam, he lifted her into his arms, fought off the wake of terror crushing upon his entity. Later. Later he could fall apart. Later he could relive the nightmare of being only a witness to her massacre. The loud, booming words of commands, of demands, of other motions slipping through were relatively ignored; he moved slowly between luxere and snow, his only thoughts on ensuring she was healed – Zuriel inside, waiting, waiting, waiting. When they finally arrived, after what felt like an eternity of his maneuvering steps, trying not to jostle, to place further harm in her wake, he maneuvered sideways, ensuring they both entered the threshold, thanks to Lily's command of the door. Only when he'd reached inside, did his voice even bother to echo again. “We need a space.” A cleared table, or two put together, enough to hold and bear her form while they worked and tended. He could feel Zuriel's movement and motions, a rushing conflagration, at his side within an instant, ready to work.
So when Remi descended, collapsing, faltering, and stumbling, the general rushed forward to help and assist, those days spent amongst the dying, the shredded, the torn asunder allowing his form to simply move without preamble, without calculation, without prelude. He’d done this before. He’d done this far too many times to count. He’d done this and this and this and then buried them on the sidelines, stained in dirt, mud, and their blood. Except, the depths of his gaze fell upon someone familiar, someone known, someone revered, admired, loved, and the nefarious intricacies of his heart burst, plummeted into his ribs, ricocheted and bounded against his lungs.
Rexanna.
There was a mind-numbing moment where he felt like he was watching from somewhere far, far away, adrift on the clouds or in the Stygian abyss, confused, perplexed, uncertain who was in his form or what was happening. That couldn’t be Rex; there were portions and pieces of her missing.
Except those stunned motions left him quickly, swiftly, (her – his Thief, his friend, his family) and his form already bent towards her, arms extended, no questions asked, no inquiries prospered, not a single sound leaving his damned mouth. Muted far more than normal, he wasn’t certain if he was even breathing, the spiraling acrimony and twisted barbarity annihilating junctures of his soul – this wasn’t right, this wasn’t fair, but the injustices were well worn and presumed, they both understood the way earth shaped their moments and shards. In another life, the Reaper would’ve scalded, brutalized, and followed the wayward path of whoever had done this to her. They would have died, slowly, piece by piece, tissue and fibers, marrow and muscle, torn away from their skeleton until they were a screaming carcass. The world wouldn’t have dared. The world would’ve paid.
Here, he was the Sword, and he could only fight, could only defend, could only be something so much more minimal. “Rexanna,” he whispered and his voice cracked, a hint, an inclination of everything else fissuring within him. Not again. I cannot do this again.
Careful, gentle, as best as the monolith could with her protruding beam, he lifted her into his arms, fought off the wake of terror crushing upon his entity. Later. Later he could fall apart. Later he could relive the nightmare of being only a witness to her massacre. The loud, booming words of commands, of demands, of other motions slipping through were relatively ignored; he moved slowly between luxere and snow, his only thoughts on ensuring she was healed – Zuriel inside, waiting, waiting, waiting. When they finally arrived, after what felt like an eternity of his maneuvering steps, trying not to jostle, to place further harm in her wake, he maneuvered sideways, ensuring they both entered the threshold, thanks to Lily's command of the door. Only when he'd reached inside, did his voice even bother to echo again. “We need a space.” A cleared table, or two put together, enough to hold and bear her form while they worked and tended. He could feel Zuriel's movement and motions, a rushing conflagration, at his side within an instant, ready to work.
DEIMOS
