not heroes any longer - we are tragedies of firelight and flesh
unholy sacraments of blood and broken bodies
The question burned against him, do I, do I, do I, callous, a disregard of ruminations and feelings. Perhaps his opinion didn’t matter. Perhaps it was simply the time and place, the way the world unraveled, dissolved, punctured, and pierced. The Reaper would’ve pulled away then, or long, long before, blasted and bludgeoned against even when all he’d done was offer support. His jaw clenched, suffocating and smoldering down a thousand things he could’ve said, could’ve hissed, could’ve growled. It wasn’t about him. But the vocals still rumbled through his chest, echoing and bounding in the little space they’d carved for themselves, sculpted despair and despondency, threads of melancholy and failure. “You doubt me.” He wouldn’t allow it to fester, to blister against him, rising above and beyond; the Sword obliging others for their terrors, for their nightmares, for their defeats, allowed to wallow just as he’d done over and over again.
He wasn’t there for the Kisamoa calamity. He wasn’t there for the Rift debacle. He wasn’t there for a whole host of other acrimonies and chaos, dead, sunken into roots and cellars, reborn again somewhere else, drifting worlds; but all the conflagrations converging, somehow just as painful, just as stained, just as morose. Maybe it was him who didn’t really matter. His eyes closed and he breathed, sharp, infernal stokes of breathing, of billowing, of striving not to fan the flames. He didn’t mean to mold any pieces into any shape – just together, just so she didn’t flicker into shards again, just so they didn’t continue to repeat those same lines and stanzas, just so she had a chance to grow, to become stronger. “Without you, I would not have changed.” Altered; been summoned from the brink of memories, from hollowed granules, from hallowed contortions – just as much a part of his life as the other ones intertwined. He might’ve still been the once king, prowling amongst his ruins, desperate to salvage more heartache and devastation, more muck and mire and ruin and anything else he could mangle in his path – but Kiada had been full of yesteryear’s promises too, restored broken chords and anomalies, pieced things back into the fold. A catalyst, a spark, an incitement, even if initially it had just been a spiral of uncertainty, misery, and woe. “Do not bother denying it.” Only the slightest smile, only the lightest chuckle, refuting before she could.
He wasn’t there for the Kisamoa calamity. He wasn’t there for the Rift debacle. He wasn’t there for a whole host of other acrimonies and chaos, dead, sunken into roots and cellars, reborn again somewhere else, drifting worlds; but all the conflagrations converging, somehow just as painful, just as stained, just as morose. Maybe it was him who didn’t really matter. His eyes closed and he breathed, sharp, infernal stokes of breathing, of billowing, of striving not to fan the flames. He didn’t mean to mold any pieces into any shape – just together, just so she didn’t flicker into shards again, just so they didn’t continue to repeat those same lines and stanzas, just so she had a chance to grow, to become stronger. “Without you, I would not have changed.” Altered; been summoned from the brink of memories, from hollowed granules, from hallowed contortions – just as much a part of his life as the other ones intertwined. He might’ve still been the once king, prowling amongst his ruins, desperate to salvage more heartache and devastation, more muck and mire and ruin and anything else he could mangle in his path – but Kiada had been full of yesteryear’s promises too, restored broken chords and anomalies, pieced things back into the fold. A catalyst, a spark, an incitement, even if initially it had just been a spiral of uncertainty, misery, and woe. “Do not bother denying it.” Only the slightest smile, only the lightest chuckle, refuting before she could.
what use have we for feeble hymns of wasted faith;
for sordid songs of glory?
DEIMOS
