Change everything you are and everything you were
Your number has been called
The foreboding in his chest refused to lift as he drifted from room to room, from place to place, from sanctum to sanctum. It coiled and rooted itself in between bones, along his ribcage, in between the canals of his nefarious heart. Protective, striving, trying, to ensure fortifications, to mitigate disaster, to do something besides render them all helpless and hopeless. His eyes coasted, ghosted, over the fragments and indentations of the long halls, and no matter how much he wandered, it did him no good; the restlessness pressed, keened, and howled in his muscles.
Deimos should’ve known, really. He should’ve understood the games they played, after being here for so long – how reaching for something never meant one would procure it. How no amount of energy, fervency, ferocity, could’ve prepare him for this particular onslaught. How plans would go so awry, that everything he thought carefully, painstakingly, meticulously orchestrated, would be rendered so meaningless.
The screams began, echoing, chilling in their rapacity, in the way they billowed in haunting decrees. The world suddenly felt very empty, save for the claws rippling down his spine. The voices were familiar; a scheme, a trick, a ruse, knowing full well the duplicitous outstretch of the monsters; how they could pluck and claw at memories, how they could douse the seams of livelihoods. And still, like a moth to a flame, like a being who’d lived in so much peril, in so much danger, for lives and years before, he was drawn into the orbit of the stark, cold, desolate summonings. He wouldn’t be able to recall how quickly he maneuvered, how swiftly he tore down the halls, how everything else was removed from his mind but those calls and screeches.
The Sword was numb; gone to a place he’d journeyed within a thousand times before – on the brink of battle, on the front lines, watching as kingdoms, allies, and adversaries fell apart around him.
He knew, he knew the moment Bastien appeared, yelled, and hollered their way, that it’d gone to disaster and ruin. Almost instantaneously, within a single evening –
And that damned door.
The meaning wasn’t lost on him, but he’d circumvent around that later, compartmentalizing the moments into smaller snippets, into ensuring survival, into moving forward into safety, into sanctity.
He’d promised her. He’d promised.
“Get away from the door,” he ordered, hoping to keep the other Ascended at bay, unaware of just how infernal it was – but the blistering, electrical scents spiraling around meant something, someone had touched it. And he reached for the aperture, for the opening, intending to liberate and deliver, to snag and procure, to save –
Except it was too late – strong hands and arms maneuvering to grab at the fallen forms, to choke and hold back the ominous, overwhelming bombardments, to pull back into within.
Deimos should’ve known, really. He should’ve understood the games they played, after being here for so long – how reaching for something never meant one would procure it. How no amount of energy, fervency, ferocity, could’ve prepare him for this particular onslaught. How plans would go so awry, that everything he thought carefully, painstakingly, meticulously orchestrated, would be rendered so meaningless.
The screams began, echoing, chilling in their rapacity, in the way they billowed in haunting decrees. The world suddenly felt very empty, save for the claws rippling down his spine. The voices were familiar; a scheme, a trick, a ruse, knowing full well the duplicitous outstretch of the monsters; how they could pluck and claw at memories, how they could douse the seams of livelihoods. And still, like a moth to a flame, like a being who’d lived in so much peril, in so much danger, for lives and years before, he was drawn into the orbit of the stark, cold, desolate summonings. He wouldn’t be able to recall how quickly he maneuvered, how swiftly he tore down the halls, how everything else was removed from his mind but those calls and screeches.
The Sword was numb; gone to a place he’d journeyed within a thousand times before – on the brink of battle, on the front lines, watching as kingdoms, allies, and adversaries fell apart around him.
He knew, he knew the moment Bastien appeared, yelled, and hollered their way, that it’d gone to disaster and ruin. Almost instantaneously, within a single evening –
And that damned door.
The meaning wasn’t lost on him, but he’d circumvent around that later, compartmentalizing the moments into smaller snippets, into ensuring survival, into moving forward into safety, into sanctity.
He’d promised her. He’d promised.
“Get away from the door,” he ordered, hoping to keep the other Ascended at bay, unaware of just how infernal it was – but the blistering, electrical scents spiraling around meant something, someone had touched it. And he reached for the aperture, for the opening, intending to liberate and deliver, to snag and procure, to save –
Except it was too late – strong hands and arms maneuvering to grab at the fallen forms, to choke and hold back the ominous, overwhelming bombardments, to pull back into within.
DEIMOS
