Unlike them, don't walk away from my fear
I've busted bones, broken stones
Deimos waited in the dusky, hallowed shadows and light, attention deviating, back and forth along starlit horizons, whales embedded, embossed with galaxies, and qilin fire, the consternations brooding and brewing in his throat. Waited for something to unravel, something to puncture, something to bleed; apprehension always there lately, no matter how many times they maneuvered forward. Waited for the inevitable truths or the daunting precision of fear and doubt, if he’d errored somewhere again, if the matter remained that he wasn’t enough. Every weakness, every flaw, every defect threatened to conjure its way through his mind, spiraling in justification, in retrospect. Too many to name, too many to count.
That she started with just the notion of him meeting with Adam was fair enough; just as bizarre and ridiculous as it sounded. Several times, he noted, all the circumstances penning them together: her health, her wellbeing, two sides of the same coin on those expanses. They differed greatly, but they’d humored one another between basket making and searching for bones, away from fresh graves and wounds. He helped me find some things for Safrin. Not all bad, despite the assignations and insinuations coiling through his lungs, through his frame, through his soul. It’d been the way weight and punctures had deepened on chosen words and phrasing, on misunderstandings lanced and shoved into inward scars, on raw guilt, animosity, and everything else bearing down upon his shoulders. They’d scalded and blistered too many ruminations and speculations the Sword had about himself.
But her words came across the attuned fixtures, the piercing slate of his stare segmenting straight back to hers, a long exhale slipping past his lips, not so drowned, not so beleaguered. It felt like relief, a lightness in his bones, in his heart, that he hadn’t gone entirely astray, that he hadn’t embedded himself into failure in her eyes. Never, he responded in turn, in the extension of adoration and devotion. She’d always be more than what he was worth, more than what he deserved. So he cherished, he loved, and he slid vows, assurances, and strength into their accord, might coursing through limbs, pulsing and pervading in the fervency of his convictions. His hands swept to lilac and argent brows, hues matching the ring on his finger, pressing understanding in gentle, soft touches along her brow, sweeping it across mythical, ethereal fur.
Then he pulled his hair upwards, banding and cording it off, before grabbing hold of the jar, an arched brow sent in her direction meant to goad, entice, challenge, and inveigle. She could join however she wished or simply bear witness, content in her company, outside of the infirmary walls. Thereafter, he jumped within the Oasis’s clutches, splash resounding, spraying, resurfacing with the container still in one palm, gaze lingering on moonbeams, on ways to capture a celestial embodiment.
That she started with just the notion of him meeting with Adam was fair enough; just as bizarre and ridiculous as it sounded. Several times, he noted, all the circumstances penning them together: her health, her wellbeing, two sides of the same coin on those expanses. They differed greatly, but they’d humored one another between basket making and searching for bones, away from fresh graves and wounds. He helped me find some things for Safrin. Not all bad, despite the assignations and insinuations coiling through his lungs, through his frame, through his soul. It’d been the way weight and punctures had deepened on chosen words and phrasing, on misunderstandings lanced and shoved into inward scars, on raw guilt, animosity, and everything else bearing down upon his shoulders. They’d scalded and blistered too many ruminations and speculations the Sword had about himself.
But her words came across the attuned fixtures, the piercing slate of his stare segmenting straight back to hers, a long exhale slipping past his lips, not so drowned, not so beleaguered. It felt like relief, a lightness in his bones, in his heart, that he hadn’t gone entirely astray, that he hadn’t embedded himself into failure in her eyes. Never, he responded in turn, in the extension of adoration and devotion. She’d always be more than what he was worth, more than what he deserved. So he cherished, he loved, and he slid vows, assurances, and strength into their accord, might coursing through limbs, pulsing and pervading in the fervency of his convictions. His hands swept to lilac and argent brows, hues matching the ring on his finger, pressing understanding in gentle, soft touches along her brow, sweeping it across mythical, ethereal fur.
Then he pulled his hair upwards, banding and cording it off, before grabbing hold of the jar, an arched brow sent in her direction meant to goad, entice, challenge, and inveigle. She could join however she wished or simply bear witness, content in her company, outside of the infirmary walls. Thereafter, he jumped within the Oasis’s clutches, splash resounding, spraying, resurfacing with the container still in one palm, gaze lingering on moonbeams, on ways to capture a celestial embodiment.
looked the devil in the eye
I hope he's going to break these chains
DEIMOS
