we're all killers
Dimming, flickering, ambient beams of light scoured and scourged; an instant sensation of not wanting to be there, of fighting, of rebelling, in the palm of his hands, in the jurisdiction of his chest. But he still stared, directly into blue light and electricity, a sneer yearning to appear and unfold, unbidden, along his features, a growl forming in his throat; none of it brought forth into the vestiges simply due to Rexanna. He watched and waited, listening, creation never the strong suit indeed, if he were to delve deeper into the lore circumventing the thresholds, the monsters rampaging at Long Night, things she’d crafted and experimented with taking hold of one of her own; his glance held to the Penumbra next, briefly. Then the worm was gone, removed from the vessel, the tank empty and forlorn without the thing within to keep it useful or necessary – gone in a matter of moments. Portions were pulled away, as if filed and flipped and curtailed, filaments plucked, all notions of the magna vermis’s stature depleted, gone, utilized for some other accord.
Then there was something about green; and then he was no longer permitted to even witness further events – no matter the amount he deigned to refuse or resist, gaze falling to the floor, to the remnants of the world around him, Atheneum collections and books disjointed along dusty shelves. A snarl rippled through him, and that didn’t make a true appearance either, silent while the Voice worked and Rexanna received; listening, listening, listening again to the whispers, to the sentiments, to the scrapes and sounds of alteration, of newly formed brambles and nettles.
When he was allowed to view anything again, it was Rexanna’s green eyes staring back at him, morphed away from the blue, from a gaze he’d always known. A hundred inquiries corded their way through him, never granted an audience, a vocalization, because of her smile – a sigh settling into his bones. At the very least, she was fixed, she could see, and one more horror of LongNight had been mended.
Then there was something about green; and then he was no longer permitted to even witness further events – no matter the amount he deigned to refuse or resist, gaze falling to the floor, to the remnants of the world around him, Atheneum collections and books disjointed along dusty shelves. A snarl rippled through him, and that didn’t make a true appearance either, silent while the Voice worked and Rexanna received; listening, listening, listening again to the whispers, to the sentiments, to the scrapes and sounds of alteration, of newly formed brambles and nettles.
When he was allowed to view anything again, it was Rexanna’s green eyes staring back at him, morphed away from the blue, from a gaze he’d always known. A hundred inquiries corded their way through him, never granted an audience, a vocalization, because of her smile – a sigh settling into his bones. At the very least, she was fixed, she could see, and one more horror of LongNight had been mended.
DEIMOS
