DEIMOS
Deimos learned to smother, repress, and segment his emotions ages before – in past lives, when the world cracked and blistered, when he could justify wars, invasions, crusades, and slaughter, thinking nothing of the individuals he cast down by his blade. It was another modicum of control, precision, and composure, so when the realms ravaged and the storms sieged, he was a part of the tempestuous lacerations, the avaricious entanglements. The haunting tides came later, when he was alone, when he could bear it no longer, when he could grieve in silence, fall apart by the seams, stitch by stitch, completely, wholly unraveled. It wouldn’t be here, in front of Bastien.
So he would stand and face the wrath, the rage, the despair he deserved.
Nothing to amend or atone for yet either, nothing for his hands to grasp, rip, and tear into the shackled evening – Bastien hoping the Voice somehow had the Penumbra’s soul. Only then did the beast slide his gaze to her prone, still figure, permitted a tight inhale to wrap around his ribs. His jaw clenched, tight and taut again, and didn’t know what else to say. “I will guard the room,” was the only thing that left his mouth, the only thing he could do now, to walk out, to ensure nothing and no one would get past tomb doors and false monuments. He made to turn, to grab hold of doorknobs, and leave – to escape the clattering echoes of his failures, of his mistakes, to harpoon and leash them upon his heart elsewhere.
So he would stand and face the wrath, the rage, the despair he deserved.
Nothing to amend or atone for yet either, nothing for his hands to grasp, rip, and tear into the shackled evening – Bastien hoping the Voice somehow had the Penumbra’s soul. Only then did the beast slide his gaze to her prone, still figure, permitted a tight inhale to wrap around his ribs. His jaw clenched, tight and taut again, and didn’t know what else to say. “I will guard the room,” was the only thing that left his mouth, the only thing he could do now, to walk out, to ensure nothing and no one would get past tomb doors and false monuments. He made to turn, to grab hold of doorknobs, and leave – to escape the clattering echoes of his failures, of his mistakes, to harpoon and leash them upon his heart elsewhere.
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
