not heroes any longer - we are tragedies of firelight and flesh
unholy sacraments of blood and broken bodies
The weight of Safrin’s disappointment serpentined over the rest worn across the broad expanse of his shoulders, more tiring, more draining now. He lowered his head, exhausted, fatigued, emptied, seeking to withdraw, to be a void on the horizon. The beast had tried and tried and tried, but even Swords rusted after constant, enduring strife, one catastrophe, one tribulation, one maelstrom to the next. Deimos could feel the surface of something pushing along his ears, clawing over his skull, begging to drown him in the wake of its infernal glory. He was so tempted to let it. What was he fighting for, when Shields offered themselves like a sacrificial lamb, after he’d spent so long digging in to the earth, in the rest of the world lending their compassion for her? The nothingness she extended to him spoke more volumes than anything else.
Worthless. Not enough: the age-old anthems, burning, scalding from the inside out.
The goddess’s scolding didn’t ruffle him though, listening, absorbing their fault lines, their incapabilities – all of those notions familiar too. Numbed, a shell, cracking, fissuring just below the surface, only his mind truly maneuvered beyond these accords, a nod extended in understanding (failed, just like so many other times), motioning forward as if it would make a difference. While they offered bone necklaces and butterflies, he inclined to the thresholds of doors, kneeling along apertures, where sunlight cast its wares upon weeds, upon stems, upon seeds on top of rubble and parched soil. He snatched them, considered, pulled their minute strength into his palm, before returning, proffering something else besides his own life. “Seeds?” Plants dying, but not before prospering an extension of new life back into surfaces: again and again and again, a cycle of death and rebirth.
Worthless. Not enough: the age-old anthems, burning, scalding from the inside out.
The goddess’s scolding didn’t ruffle him though, listening, absorbing their fault lines, their incapabilities – all of those notions familiar too. Numbed, a shell, cracking, fissuring just below the surface, only his mind truly maneuvered beyond these accords, a nod extended in understanding (failed, just like so many other times), motioning forward as if it would make a difference. While they offered bone necklaces and butterflies, he inclined to the thresholds of doors, kneeling along apertures, where sunlight cast its wares upon weeds, upon stems, upon seeds on top of rubble and parched soil. He snatched them, considered, pulled their minute strength into his palm, before returning, proffering something else besides his own life. “Seeds?” Plants dying, but not before prospering an extension of new life back into surfaces: again and again and again, a cycle of death and rebirth.
what use have we for feeble hymns of wasted faith;
for sordid songs of glory?
DEIMOS
