not heroes any longer - we are tragedies of firelight and flesh
unholy sacraments of blood and broken bodies
Her words might have permeated and pervaded, but they were snagged in the throes of his anguish too, there to settle against him. Maybe he wasn’t ready to hear them, painstakingly believing he deserved every amount of anguish clawing its way through his vestiges, head hung down low, broad shoulders tired, exhausted, fatigued with the amount he deigned to carry. A quiet murmur flickered, followed, ran down his throat like a barb, like a nettle, like a thorn. “She may not see it that way.” The dread of that statement snarled and seared too, because it was one more individual to lose. It’s all he’d ever done consistently, and well; incapable of saving, of keeping everything together, of salvaging after the storms. He’d rebuilt over and over again, but he’d also watched them walk away, wither, or decay – hands reaching to grasp, and still, they hadn’t been enough.
And what if Kiada didn’t forgive him? What if all the promises and vows he’d made truly signified and meant nothing? What was he worth then, to anyone?
This was why he’d once yearned for naught more than hollowed out, decrepit, vacant, a vessel, a meaningless machine, a shell to take the world apart. No feeling, no remorse, no regard, no morality, no ethics, a soulless, eldritch titan amongst and amidst lands to falter beneath his machinations. The Sword had managed to do it entirely by mistake, by consequences rendered, by ineptitude, by misplaced assurances. It hurt, to try and try and try, and to watch it all go up in smoke, in flames, in the fumes of one of his own – souls and entities gone out, redemption too many eons away.
The Shield remained and he breathed, striving to swallow down the demons, the infidels, the rest of the void threatening to consume him. Deimos only bothered to fight at all because she was there; otherwise he would’ve sunk, fallen, into the makeshift crypts, crags, and warrens, waiting to be desecrated and ruined again. The beast expressed his need in silence, opening his arms, to enfold, to encircle, to pull her into him where she fit, where he could hide in his misery.
And what if Kiada didn’t forgive him? What if all the promises and vows he’d made truly signified and meant nothing? What was he worth then, to anyone?
This was why he’d once yearned for naught more than hollowed out, decrepit, vacant, a vessel, a meaningless machine, a shell to take the world apart. No feeling, no remorse, no regard, no morality, no ethics, a soulless, eldritch titan amongst and amidst lands to falter beneath his machinations. The Sword had managed to do it entirely by mistake, by consequences rendered, by ineptitude, by misplaced assurances. It hurt, to try and try and try, and to watch it all go up in smoke, in flames, in the fumes of one of his own – souls and entities gone out, redemption too many eons away.
The Shield remained and he breathed, striving to swallow down the demons, the infidels, the rest of the void threatening to consume him. Deimos only bothered to fight at all because she was there; otherwise he would’ve sunk, fallen, into the makeshift crypts, crags, and warrens, waiting to be desecrated and ruined again. The beast expressed his need in silence, opening his arms, to enfold, to encircle, to pull her into him where she fit, where he could hide in his misery.
what use have we for feeble hymns of wasted faith;
for sordid songs of glory?
DEIMOS
