DEIMOS
The Sword didn’t really see the room. No details sparked or sizzled, no particulars reached his brain. It was only the mind-numbing gravity of the void crushing and waging down on him, hot knives and piercing blows, like all the others scars he’d obtained from wars and crusades, only inward. Maybe he wished he was bleeding, cut and lacerated, bludgeoned and beaten, so the guilt would be visceral, tangible, instead of clustered and coiled in this hollowed sanction, before a husband who mourned his wife.
He stood against the door, one not armed tooth and nail with the ability to fry them apart, gripping and grasping for something real and whole, and could barely hear the words the Ascended uttered. Deimos had no death knell sonnets, no pretty words to make the whole thing better, no salve or balm to ease or dull the pain, the torment. Instead, it scraped down his spine and pierced like a scream through his skull, belligerent and terrible, soulless and irreverent, as seditious as he’d been. “I am sorry,” he pressed, quiet at first, into the void. “This is my fault.” His fault for wanting them to be safe, his fault for asking for a door to ward away the cretins, his fault for wishing the world to stop shrieking at their backs. For not listening, for thinking, for believing.
And in the end, all he’d accomplished was slaying one of his own.
He stood against the door, one not armed tooth and nail with the ability to fry them apart, gripping and grasping for something real and whole, and could barely hear the words the Ascended uttered. Deimos had no death knell sonnets, no pretty words to make the whole thing better, no salve or balm to ease or dull the pain, the torment. Instead, it scraped down his spine and pierced like a scream through his skull, belligerent and terrible, soulless and irreverent, as seditious as he’d been. “I am sorry,” he pressed, quiet at first, into the void. “This is my fault.” His fault for wanting them to be safe, his fault for asking for a door to ward away the cretins, his fault for wishing the world to stop shrieking at their backs. For not listening, for thinking, for believing.
And in the end, all he’d accomplished was slaying one of his own.
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
