Whoa, you let your feet run wild
Time has come as we all go down
Footsteps, hooved and human alike, echoed down the vast chambers, and he wondered about sinking further, about stretching out into the fathoms below, becoming swallowed, consumed, flesh and bone devoured in his soulless trek. Maybe they would pass on by, leave him to his immorality, to his multitude of sins, to the feral iniquity stuck and barbed in his skin, never quite capable of digging it out. Perhaps they would stay, linger out on the outskirts of his misery, proclaim another fault he’d missed – devoutly aware of every single one of his failings, of the way his knees yearned to buckle, of all the ineptitude surging past his spine.
But he’d also know her presence anywhere, and so he sighed, and lifted his head up from his arms, from the hiding deluges, from the torn, ripped bearings.
How would Hotaru feel now, understanding, comprehending, that he’d been the fool to take out one of their own? Their kin? Their ally? Their adversary? Their friend? Who had never damned him but he’d done so in bouts of ignorance, in failing to understand the course his actions would take?
He couldn’t bear the way she spoke his name – as if he bore any worth at all. She was mistaken; his name had never been a benediction, never been an invocation, an omen to anything holy, reverential, or consecrated. No blessing from his presence, no absolution from his entity, nothing coinciding except for foolishness, for believing he was capable of fortifying this world, his friends, his family, from havoc and desecration. For all his machinations, calculations, and sentiments, it’d done none of them any good – brought harm, brought slaughter, brought the void to rise up and snatch, grasp with harpooned fangs.
When had he ever triumphed or succeeded, after all? What successes had he garnered for this realm, or for their previous one?
Why did anyone bother with him?
“Hotaru,” he murmured, like the Sword had already broken and split into tiny fragments, into portions and pieces of dust and decay, withered, dust to dust. His eyes went to the unicorn, but so very briefly it may not have even registered in his mind – riveted straight back to her on the fringes of collapse. And still, Deimos held out his arms and let them both fall into it, into the despair, into the despondency, enveloped and embraced, residual, habitual strength binding together.
And straight into self-loathing, into self-torture, into the truth, into the veracity. “This is my fault.” A harsh whisper, a stoking of contempt for only himself; even if Amalia had told him otherwise. It still pierced and punctured, succeeded over anything else in his mind.
But he’d also know her presence anywhere, and so he sighed, and lifted his head up from his arms, from the hiding deluges, from the torn, ripped bearings.
How would Hotaru feel now, understanding, comprehending, that he’d been the fool to take out one of their own? Their kin? Their ally? Their adversary? Their friend? Who had never damned him but he’d done so in bouts of ignorance, in failing to understand the course his actions would take?
He couldn’t bear the way she spoke his name – as if he bore any worth at all. She was mistaken; his name had never been a benediction, never been an invocation, an omen to anything holy, reverential, or consecrated. No blessing from his presence, no absolution from his entity, nothing coinciding except for foolishness, for believing he was capable of fortifying this world, his friends, his family, from havoc and desecration. For all his machinations, calculations, and sentiments, it’d done none of them any good – brought harm, brought slaughter, brought the void to rise up and snatch, grasp with harpooned fangs.
When had he ever triumphed or succeeded, after all? What successes had he garnered for this realm, or for their previous one?
Why did anyone bother with him?
“Hotaru,” he murmured, like the Sword had already broken and split into tiny fragments, into portions and pieces of dust and decay, withered, dust to dust. His eyes went to the unicorn, but so very briefly it may not have even registered in his mind – riveted straight back to her on the fringes of collapse. And still, Deimos held out his arms and let them both fall into it, into the despair, into the despondency, enveloped and embraced, residual, habitual strength binding together.
And straight into self-loathing, into self-torture, into the truth, into the veracity. “This is my fault.” A harsh whisper, a stoking of contempt for only himself; even if Amalia had told him otherwise. It still pierced and punctured, succeeded over anything else in his mind.
Yeah but for the fall—oh, my—
Do you dare to look them right in the eyes?
DEIMOS
