DEIMOS
What would it be like: to simply give in? To just let every bone in his wake descend into the floor and crumble into dust? To drift back down into his hellish spiral, revisit the oblivion he’d been within before and before and before? Because this was just another form, a rush of phantoms, a weight of ghosts, survivor’s guilt waging its war on the victims in its hold. Too god damned stubborn, too tenacious, too barbaric, he held himself together with fraying strands and decaying sinew, fighting off the onslaught, the temptation, the enticement of surrender. He kept trying because it was all he knew how to do now – didn’t know what it meant when they ceased altogether. I know he uttered into those voids of silence, where they were just ruins and seams, because he was exhausted too, but couldn’t, refused, to bend down into submission, concession, defeat. So am I. Like it mattered. Like anything they did counteracted the plagues upon this world. Like their fortifications hadn’t fallen and split apart, like the realm didn’t laugh when they sputtered and fumed, when they cried and extinguished, when they begged for mercy and it went unheard.
What was the alternative? Sit and settle into the void? Be so utterly consumed and devoured, swallowed and engulfed, submerged by wave upon wave of anguish? Deimos didn’t have any answers for her – just as lost, just as picked and clawed and scarred. The beast had ceased trying more than once; shaped into the Reaper, into annals, tombs, and catacombs of his bone-crushing invocations and his malicious bludgeoning. It hadn’t earned him anything better, anything greater, anything grander. He’d still been marred and cut, slashed and lacerated, driven into onslaught after onslaught, terror after terror. And still he clutched tighter, uncertain of where to go or what to do, lost, lost, and lost, holding her together while his mountainous wake disintegrated. A shake of his head, a choking breath, a grating rasp, a denial, a dissent, a seditious exploit, from the crawling spirals of their defeat – maybe he’d simply continue holding their heads above the water, until he couldn’t any longer. Despite the notion that she sounded done, he wasn't, not yet. "Do you want to do something to honor them?"
What was the alternative? Sit and settle into the void? Be so utterly consumed and devoured, swallowed and engulfed, submerged by wave upon wave of anguish? Deimos didn’t have any answers for her – just as lost, just as picked and clawed and scarred. The beast had ceased trying more than once; shaped into the Reaper, into annals, tombs, and catacombs of his bone-crushing invocations and his malicious bludgeoning. It hadn’t earned him anything better, anything greater, anything grander. He’d still been marred and cut, slashed and lacerated, driven into onslaught after onslaught, terror after terror. And still he clutched tighter, uncertain of where to go or what to do, lost, lost, and lost, holding her together while his mountainous wake disintegrated. A shake of his head, a choking breath, a grating rasp, a denial, a dissent, a seditious exploit, from the crawling spirals of their defeat – maybe he’d simply continue holding their heads above the water, until he couldn’t any longer. Despite the notion that she sounded done, he wasn't, not yet. "Do you want to do something to honor them?"
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
