DEIMOS
It’d always been an inevitable twist and turn of this world: that they dig in, that they soldier on, that they maneuver forward because there was nothing else to do but lie in a heap, but sink into the marrow of their failures. He understood the nuances because he’d been doing the same thing, marching steadily on after each and every disaster, pummeling onward when everything scorched and sizzled and seared, carrying more scars, more lacerations, more demises across his shoulders, down his spine. They were heavy, they were cumbersome, and they were annihilating, and for some reason it broke his heart to ask her to bear another one. But if she gave in, with every ounce of spirit and conviction once laden within her soul, then what was the point of him going on?
He said nothing when she protested again, when the soft utterance fell over his flesh, when his lungs heaved another infernal sigh into the darkened corridors of the infirmary. While she shook and while she sobbed and while he wanted to fizzle and fragment just as readily, just as easily, he knew he couldn’t. “You do not need to pretend. You do not need to be okay.” Acceptance, just as easy as his breath filtering into the space of healing and mending, swallowing down the bile threatening to clamber over his throat, hands ensuring she was pressed into his chest, safe for the moment. “We are all recovering.” Constantly – rebounding from one thing to the next, and it was exhausting. It was fatiguing. It was damning and plaguing. And while she’d been shattered in mind and body, there were others just as broken, beaten, or aflame. There’d be no judgments cast. There’d be no stones thrown.
The Sword leaned back against the doorframe as if it were a lifeline, a tether, a lock and key. “I went to see Safrin about healing you.” And blessings, but those didn’t really matter now. “She gave me some tasks, and one I have to complete now.” Beneath the full moon, outstretched arms reaching for water intertwined within its luminous grasp. But he let the rest of it fall; desperation curling into his accord, devastation piecing and patching their seams together – when it should’ve, could’ve been so much more. He didn't know whether she'd be angry or cross with him for trying at all.
He said nothing when she protested again, when the soft utterance fell over his flesh, when his lungs heaved another infernal sigh into the darkened corridors of the infirmary. While she shook and while she sobbed and while he wanted to fizzle and fragment just as readily, just as easily, he knew he couldn’t. “You do not need to pretend. You do not need to be okay.” Acceptance, just as easy as his breath filtering into the space of healing and mending, swallowing down the bile threatening to clamber over his throat, hands ensuring she was pressed into his chest, safe for the moment. “We are all recovering.” Constantly – rebounding from one thing to the next, and it was exhausting. It was fatiguing. It was damning and plaguing. And while she’d been shattered in mind and body, there were others just as broken, beaten, or aflame. There’d be no judgments cast. There’d be no stones thrown.
The Sword leaned back against the doorframe as if it were a lifeline, a tether, a lock and key. “I went to see Safrin about healing you.” And blessings, but those didn’t really matter now. “She gave me some tasks, and one I have to complete now.” Beneath the full moon, outstretched arms reaching for water intertwined within its luminous grasp. But he let the rest of it fall; desperation curling into his accord, devastation piecing and patching their seams together – when it should’ve, could’ve been so much more. He didn't know whether she'd be angry or cross with him for trying at all.
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
