not heroes any longer - we are tragedies of firelight and flesh
unholy sacraments of blood and broken bodies
Movements and motions were a flurry of tempestuous waves, convictions and creeds curled, coiled, contorted in armaments and munitions, gone in a matter of moments in sheer relief. There was no disguise in his reassurance at her survival, a sigh heaved, shuddering through his chest, heartbeat ricocheting and bounding against caged ribs, billowed and fanned as the midnight air exposed her tarred, bloodied features. There was no hesitation in the opening of his arms, inviting her into their circle of protection, guidance, and support, in the raising of her form against his, firm but gentle, always, always, always proffering the eternity of his stalwart, steady entity, tangibility. The beast could feel Amalia’s presence there too, her mythical form brandished across the surfaces of their existence, a soothing, assuaging thing; he breathed, he inhaled, he exhaled, he could stop pleading to the ends of the earth for the Harpy to return. Hands held under Kiada’s arms, strong and enduring, then enclosed and wrapped around her sides, bringing her up to his shoulders, to press her head into their brawn, capable of bearing all the weight, all the melancholy, all the things she must’ve seen, must’ve heard, must’ve borne on the scathing vices of LongNight’s distinction.
But she’d prevailed – here and now, not lost to the twilight entanglements or danger, not disappeared into the veiled treacheries, into the eldritch machinations. That alone could’ve been measured as a victory: outliving, outlasting, persistence, enduring fortitude she’d always possessed; the fire, the brimstone, the embers, given a touch of conflagration, a kindling, an incensed stoking of hearts and lungs and devouring, consuming circumstances. The Sword had faith in her triumphs, in her victories, in the spells she could weave, in the power, potential, and prowess she could exert. Life and death had made her shroud, her daggers, her crowns, and though her weapons had clattered to the floor, though her armor was stained and marred; it really mattered naught. “What happened?” His voice rumbled on a calm, quiet whisper, maneuvering both of them out of the doorway, off to a quieter corner.
But she’d prevailed – here and now, not lost to the twilight entanglements or danger, not disappeared into the veiled treacheries, into the eldritch machinations. That alone could’ve been measured as a victory: outliving, outlasting, persistence, enduring fortitude she’d always possessed; the fire, the brimstone, the embers, given a touch of conflagration, a kindling, an incensed stoking of hearts and lungs and devouring, consuming circumstances. The Sword had faith in her triumphs, in her victories, in the spells she could weave, in the power, potential, and prowess she could exert. Life and death had made her shroud, her daggers, her crowns, and though her weapons had clattered to the floor, though her armor was stained and marred; it really mattered naught. “What happened?” His voice rumbled on a calm, quiet whisper, maneuvering both of them out of the doorway, off to a quieter corner.
what use have we for feeble hymns of wasted faith;
for sordid songs of glory?
DEIMOS
