Whoa, you let your feet run wild
Time has come as we all go down
Pressed and embraced, the Valkyrie strived to guard him from his own rendered, stupefying mistakes, and he shook his head against her hold, a silent argument, a hushed departure from any healing, from any assuaging, soothing measures. He should’ve. He should’ve known better. Caught in the web of naivete, thinking, believing, he treaded a thin line amongst and amidst deity affairs – unworthy and undeserving to be in their threshold - when all along the sketches had long since moved, and he was snagged in the thick of its netting. It’d been a great source of consternation and trepidation for as long as he’d lived, no matter which world, to be immersed in the plains of the celestial accord, in their mercurial abysses, in their transitions of power and pawns. But once he’d asked for strength, been lifted into the sky and dropped back down to the earth by stars, perhaps he’d already been snagged – hadn’t noticed, hadn’t looked hard enough. Every time he asked for assistance was one step closer – and this had sealed it – his protective predilections, his overwhelming need to shield the world, had been utilized for death and destruction of one of his own. “I should have left it alone.”
No special doors, no frameworks to deceive monsters or demons, no modicum of alterations – just let it be, as the Naturals always claimed to do.
The Sword swallowed down another choking wave of bile, and sunk into the contempt for himself, for the actions leading them all here, down roads of grief, bombardment, and loss (again and again and again; wraiths and phantoms eternally behind their eyes). “She would be right.” An idiot, a fool, the words echoing and bounding across his bones, a schism in between ribs and lungs; stilling in her hold, wondering, willing, to let the current rise and take hold of him, flesh and bone, to be devoured whole, to be obliterated for his efforts.
He held her tighter then, as they simultaneously fell apart, cracked and fragmented on Penumbras that could no longer shine or eclipse, on craftiness, on deviousness, that had once ensured they were all kin. No more planning beneath mountain skies, the chill in the air, no more laughing in the wind to spite the world, no more greetings between artistic venues and sanctuaries, no more clambering between foolish schemes and remembering better days. All of it was gone too. His voice pierced above her shoulder, deep and brooding, brimming with the despondency, the way one of their own simply ceased. “I am sorry it was not good enough.” A thousand apologies on the juncture of his jaw, on the rapacity of hackles and fangs, but naught else to show for it. His best had made it worse, and his faults, his flaws had been magnified so the world could see what he was truly worth: nothing. The Reaper lived again – and hadn’t even meant to pick up the scythe.
No special doors, no frameworks to deceive monsters or demons, no modicum of alterations – just let it be, as the Naturals always claimed to do.
The Sword swallowed down another choking wave of bile, and sunk into the contempt for himself, for the actions leading them all here, down roads of grief, bombardment, and loss (again and again and again; wraiths and phantoms eternally behind their eyes). “She would be right.” An idiot, a fool, the words echoing and bounding across his bones, a schism in between ribs and lungs; stilling in her hold, wondering, willing, to let the current rise and take hold of him, flesh and bone, to be devoured whole, to be obliterated for his efforts.
He held her tighter then, as they simultaneously fell apart, cracked and fragmented on Penumbras that could no longer shine or eclipse, on craftiness, on deviousness, that had once ensured they were all kin. No more planning beneath mountain skies, the chill in the air, no more laughing in the wind to spite the world, no more greetings between artistic venues and sanctuaries, no more clambering between foolish schemes and remembering better days. All of it was gone too. His voice pierced above her shoulder, deep and brooding, brimming with the despondency, the way one of their own simply ceased. “I am sorry it was not good enough.” A thousand apologies on the juncture of his jaw, on the rapacity of hackles and fangs, but naught else to show for it. His best had made it worse, and his faults, his flaws had been magnified so the world could see what he was truly worth: nothing. The Reaper lived again – and hadn’t even meant to pick up the scythe.
Yeah but for the fall—oh, my—
Do you dare to look them right in the eyes?
DEIMOS
