DEIMOS
He half-expected some retort, a flinging, a flailing of limbs at his bones, might’ve welcomed it along with the rest of the tempestuous ire, understanding, comprehending, the vitriol, the vehemence. He didn’t bother answering the first, maneuvering quietly, softly, trying not to jar as she seethed, as the reprimand sunk into his skin, as his hollowed-out, carved vessel strode through the infirmary. His face was a bastion of indifference when everything else threatened to crumble around him, and he was so damn tired of this inevitable sway. He would’ve fallen apart too, on every word, on every hiss, on every sibilance, driven himself right into the mire, never bothering to resurface.
One hand remained tethered to her as he went to open the door, as he went to bid them some sort of freedom, some sort of liberation, some sort of deliverance. That she didn’t want.
Beneath it all, he wondered just what that meant. If she was giving in, if after all of the persistence, all the endurance, all the perseverance, this was the crack, the fissure, that did her in. If there was naught left. If anything he said would do a damn bit of good. If anything he’d done, already committed to, mattered at all.
So instead of leaving, he turned, leaning against the aperture, holding her in his arms, wanting, wishing, for the world to cease its contemptuous spin for half a moment. He curled her closer; desperate in the grasp, in the shuddering breaths, fatigued, controlled to a fault, so he didn’t splinter here. “You are not broken,” was a crackling whisper; because he knew what it meant to flicker apart into shards, into fragments, into nothing more than a wandering vessel. “You are healing, and it will take time.” Her toes wiggling meant something was happening – a change for the good. If he could accomplish his other tasks, then it might be all the faster, all the swifter. “But you cannot waste your life in here.”
One hand remained tethered to her as he went to open the door, as he went to bid them some sort of freedom, some sort of liberation, some sort of deliverance. That she didn’t want.
Beneath it all, he wondered just what that meant. If she was giving in, if after all of the persistence, all the endurance, all the perseverance, this was the crack, the fissure, that did her in. If there was naught left. If anything he said would do a damn bit of good. If anything he’d done, already committed to, mattered at all.
So instead of leaving, he turned, leaning against the aperture, holding her in his arms, wanting, wishing, for the world to cease its contemptuous spin for half a moment. He curled her closer; desperate in the grasp, in the shuddering breaths, fatigued, controlled to a fault, so he didn’t splinter here. “You are not broken,” was a crackling whisper; because he knew what it meant to flicker apart into shards, into fragments, into nothing more than a wandering vessel. “You are healing, and it will take time.” Her toes wiggling meant something was happening – a change for the good. If he could accomplish his other tasks, then it might be all the faster, all the swifter. “But you cannot waste your life in here.”
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
