Whoa, you let your feet run wild
Time has come as we all go down
Each season seemed to bring about a re-established reign of suffering; a prolonged agony of death, damnation, and everything else gnarled and belligerent in between. There was no foreshadowed end in sight either – the once prevalent time of regrowth and rebirth deciding to leave the path behind, and churn it over into an abysmal rift. Sometimes numbing, sometimes clawing, sometimes ripping, sometimes tearing, sometimes a haunting, poignant multitude in the dead of night, when nothing escaped the inability to slumber without chasing down one of the terrible figments. Remembering. Recalling. Renaming sins and plights and scars and mistakes.
The constant flaws turned and churned into a bone-wearing fatigue that ground its way into his skull, and stayed there, drifting ominously. He’d already spent the latter part of the morning beating everything in the training yard into submission, then subsequently repairing the damaged targets and dummies. At some point he’d meandered into the armory, spending time cleaning, putting blades back in their designated areas, some mindless fathoms requiring none of his inward wounds or blatant lacerations, striving to understand how to move forward, become better, when everything slashed and undermined, when it hurt to merely exist.
He only raised his head from sharpening a sword, placing it back upon a rack, when the door opened. The General tilted his cranium and thought nothing of it – plenty came and went through the aperture to gain access; perhaps he’d be left to his own devices, to brood in back corners, in the threading darkness consuming –
And then he heard Bastien’s voice calling for him. For a favor.
A long, deep sigh contorted its way through his lungs, and he rested his head back against a wall. How easy would it be to hide? To pretend he wasn’t here? So the world couldn’t find him, grind him into a million pieces?
And would that make things any easier?
He shifted off the wall, wandering down the hallway, until he reached the parlor with the artist inside. For a moment, he didn’t bother to hide his exhausted, pained countenance, and then recalled, shifting it back to some token nonchalance; the mask very worn, very tired, very frayed. “Bastien,” a nod of greeting, wondering if the man even knew that another part of Rexanna was gone. “What can I do for you?”
The constant flaws turned and churned into a bone-wearing fatigue that ground its way into his skull, and stayed there, drifting ominously. He’d already spent the latter part of the morning beating everything in the training yard into submission, then subsequently repairing the damaged targets and dummies. At some point he’d meandered into the armory, spending time cleaning, putting blades back in their designated areas, some mindless fathoms requiring none of his inward wounds or blatant lacerations, striving to understand how to move forward, become better, when everything slashed and undermined, when it hurt to merely exist.
He only raised his head from sharpening a sword, placing it back upon a rack, when the door opened. The General tilted his cranium and thought nothing of it – plenty came and went through the aperture to gain access; perhaps he’d be left to his own devices, to brood in back corners, in the threading darkness consuming –
And then he heard Bastien’s voice calling for him. For a favor.
A long, deep sigh contorted its way through his lungs, and he rested his head back against a wall. How easy would it be to hide? To pretend he wasn’t here? So the world couldn’t find him, grind him into a million pieces?
And would that make things any easier?
He shifted off the wall, wandering down the hallway, until he reached the parlor with the artist inside. For a moment, he didn’t bother to hide his exhausted, pained countenance, and then recalled, shifting it back to some token nonchalance; the mask very worn, very tired, very frayed. “Bastien,” a nod of greeting, wondering if the man even knew that another part of Rexanna was gone. “What can I do for you?”
Yeah but for the fall—oh, my—
Do you dare to look them right in the eyes?
DEIMOS
