not heroes any longer - we are tragedies of firelight and flesh
unholy sacraments of blood and broken bodies
He’d meant together; not all monsters could be slain within singular, rapacious revolutions, that she could take others that would help combat, assault, and siege, that were willing. They hadn’t always been successful on their excursions and sojourns, pieces and pockets of treachery looming far wider, far greater, far more massive than they’d believed. Magical creatures hadn’t survived under their care, he’d barely existed without Remi’s aid when they’d rampaged into the cavern to save those screaming and crying, they hadn’t been alone when journeying to retrieve Amalia, Kiada, and the rest of them within the Fae’s clutches. How many times had they put together buildings? Prepared ramparts? Had any of them coincided with only themselves, and no one else? This was a community, a society, strangely accepting and tolerating of so many different factions, alterations, and beings – like the Basin, only less dominion oriented. Couldn’t she see that? That no one would have left her alone? That had she asked him, he would have raised any amount of weapon to help her?
But she hadn’t. And he hadn’t.
And now they were stuck in this midst of broken calamities and faltering forms, when she was strong, capable, and enduring, and maybe the world was simply saying she wasn’t strong enough yet. That was why they pushed on, that was why they endured, that was why they manifested into something beyond giving in and giving up. Perhaps it was just a moment in time for her to flicker off into pieces, to collapse in upon herself, and then eventually, she would rear her defiant chin towards demons, ghosts, and phantoms again.
She shook in his arms, trembling, quaking, shuddering, and he pressed in tighter, as much as she would allow, the only comfort and aid he could provide. He purposefully placed his head on the top of hers, meant to anchor, while she snapped and bristled, while she maintained a semblance of anger over the tension of grief. He didn’t call it failure. He didn’t call it defeat or collapse. It was a floundering, but a notion, a motion, towards growth, towards becoming that beacon of strength, so when Ru’in and the demons from within saw her again, they’d quiver in her presence. “So you would do the same to him?” His brows furrowed again – misunderstanding the cycle of their rituals and patterns. Was this vengeance or devotion?
But she hadn’t. And he hadn’t.
And now they were stuck in this midst of broken calamities and faltering forms, when she was strong, capable, and enduring, and maybe the world was simply saying she wasn’t strong enough yet. That was why they pushed on, that was why they endured, that was why they manifested into something beyond giving in and giving up. Perhaps it was just a moment in time for her to flicker off into pieces, to collapse in upon herself, and then eventually, she would rear her defiant chin towards demons, ghosts, and phantoms again.
She shook in his arms, trembling, quaking, shuddering, and he pressed in tighter, as much as she would allow, the only comfort and aid he could provide. He purposefully placed his head on the top of hers, meant to anchor, while she snapped and bristled, while she maintained a semblance of anger over the tension of grief. He didn’t call it failure. He didn’t call it defeat or collapse. It was a floundering, but a notion, a motion, towards growth, towards becoming that beacon of strength, so when Ru’in and the demons from within saw her again, they’d quiver in her presence. “So you would do the same to him?” His brows furrowed again – misunderstanding the cycle of their rituals and patterns. Was this vengeance or devotion?
what use have we for feeble hymns of wasted faith;
for sordid songs of glory?
DEIMOS
