Whoa, you let your feet run wild
Time has come as we all go down
Deimos would take on the world for those he cherished; no matter the weight. A strong, sturdy foundation, a stalwart fortification in between the rubble, the ruins, and the devastation, ignoring, forgoing the twisted agony in chests, ribs, and limbs, never complaining about the amount he held on his broad shoulders. He didn’t push the semblances onto anyone else. His knees didn’t buckle. His muscles didn’t quake or shudder. But lords, there was going to be a day when the tiny fissures, cracks, and lines in his shoulders were going to be too much, and he was going to succumb, head straight into murky waters and drowning wakes, and forget how to find the surface. Maybe his arms would be too tired, maybe his legs would be too exhausted, maybe the edge of his bones would eventually crumble, and it wouldn’t be enough to shove, rise, or insist any longer. Maybe the earth would sink just a little too hard, and he’d erode once more, go down with it. Too heavy to be carried, too burdened to be worth saving.
And still, for now, he endured.
Except he wanted to hang his head over the table or place it on the surface, simply remain there for a moment where his mind didn’t channel into different bouts of agony.
Except Hotaru was there, and she was wounded, marked, and hurt too, and they were lost souls again, without the constant winter at their doors. Just the knives of every day existence, of new, fresh, raw trials and tribulations. So he poured his drink and listened, savoring the burn in slow accord, self-inflicted torture; though to grab hold of some bread except there wasn’t any because Amalia hadn’t been there and he swallowed so many other things. His eyes yielded to Hotaru instead, indicating he was listening as she tried to voice her own inner despair, the strange workings of this earth, ceremonies he was glad to have missed, unfitting relationships and ties to fellow militia and their new midwife nuptials.
The whole accord had been strange to him, and there was a certain sorrow affixed to the notion that he’d had a slight hand in it. “I made their rings.” He paused, shook his head, then dragged his gaze to glance at the table – where he’d made some for he and Amalia, furtive and secret. “I thought one was going to be for you at first.” The smallest of smiles curved at the edge of his lips before disappearing again, as if it hadn’t meant to be there at all – stare finally segmenting its way back to her, form leaning back into his chair. The Sword would’ve made hers far better, at least, like crackling lightning and thundering storms, like rolling tempests and conflagrations, like cloaks and daggers. Not pretty flowers and petals, not roses guided by the light. Power and precision, might and fortitude. Deimos hadn’t seen the appeal of Phoebe. But then again, he was biased.
Bizarre though, how both had come to devote too much; as if all the inner workings of Helovia had scraped off, and they’d forgotten some of the steel and resolve in face of kindness, acceptance, and tolerance – given to instead of constantly taking, and when it was gone, when it was severed, when it was fleeting, rocky, and full of hardships, they were rattled and confused. “You cared enough.” Even if she didn’t love him, even if she couldn’t fathom or understand the clasped chambers of her heart, maybe it’d simply been bonds. She’d delved deep, formed those connections. Then they were tossed aside, as if they were nothing, as if they were meaningless. A scarring, damning thing, a reason to be embittered and rancorous.
And still, for now, he endured.
Except he wanted to hang his head over the table or place it on the surface, simply remain there for a moment where his mind didn’t channel into different bouts of agony.
Except Hotaru was there, and she was wounded, marked, and hurt too, and they were lost souls again, without the constant winter at their doors. Just the knives of every day existence, of new, fresh, raw trials and tribulations. So he poured his drink and listened, savoring the burn in slow accord, self-inflicted torture; though to grab hold of some bread except there wasn’t any because Amalia hadn’t been there and he swallowed so many other things. His eyes yielded to Hotaru instead, indicating he was listening as she tried to voice her own inner despair, the strange workings of this earth, ceremonies he was glad to have missed, unfitting relationships and ties to fellow militia and their new midwife nuptials.
The whole accord had been strange to him, and there was a certain sorrow affixed to the notion that he’d had a slight hand in it. “I made their rings.” He paused, shook his head, then dragged his gaze to glance at the table – where he’d made some for he and Amalia, furtive and secret. “I thought one was going to be for you at first.” The smallest of smiles curved at the edge of his lips before disappearing again, as if it hadn’t meant to be there at all – stare finally segmenting its way back to her, form leaning back into his chair. The Sword would’ve made hers far better, at least, like crackling lightning and thundering storms, like rolling tempests and conflagrations, like cloaks and daggers. Not pretty flowers and petals, not roses guided by the light. Power and precision, might and fortitude. Deimos hadn’t seen the appeal of Phoebe. But then again, he was biased.
Bizarre though, how both had come to devote too much; as if all the inner workings of Helovia had scraped off, and they’d forgotten some of the steel and resolve in face of kindness, acceptance, and tolerance – given to instead of constantly taking, and when it was gone, when it was severed, when it was fleeting, rocky, and full of hardships, they were rattled and confused. “You cared enough.” Even if she didn’t love him, even if she couldn’t fathom or understand the clasped chambers of her heart, maybe it’d simply been bonds. She’d delved deep, formed those connections. Then they were tossed aside, as if they were nothing, as if they were meaningless. A scarring, damning thing, a reason to be embittered and rancorous.
Yeah but for the fall—oh, my—
Do you dare to look them right in the eyes?
DEIMOS
