DEIMOS
The mountains called.
They always had, truthfully, in the back of his mind when the day was done and slumber fell, when dreams ignited into the past and he saw eternal winter before his eyes. They whispered in the dead of night, in the glimpses of mornings, in the beckoning twilight where auroras had once burst, where he’d stood at the top of summits and felt alive.
He barely was now, anyway – stumbling, fumbling, chasing down figments, mind deluded, consumed, by subtle nuances, by siren wails of fury and stone. By the time he’d marched into the desolation, into the sparks of something more, something else, something he thought had once been his – before bones were buried in the sides, before he’d perished, before he’d been taken right into the rock and rubble themselves…
The beast fell, the monolith toppled, and he breathed, heavy, lungs yearning to collapse, as he rolled over to stare at the desolate sky. He could see, feel, Zuriel’s teeth snapping at his clothes, threatening to pull him, to drag him, to not let him remain there, eventually frozen.
The Sword did nothing but remain very still, waiting for the earth to bind and tear and sear him again. Maybe there’d be no bones left. No one would notice. No one would care. It’d been easy to slip away before, to just sink into the ground and die, exhausted and alone.
Because that’s how he lived and breathed and existed – alone.
”Again, son?”
A voice, familiar and long, long gone, pierced through the haze, and the ghost of his father crouched beside him – flames and infernos, embers coiled around his head, a crown of cinders and ash, and suddenly everything ached. He thought to turn away, brutally, bitterly ashamed, but he could see the rampant look of disapproval on his mother’s features from the corner of his gaze; trapped and haunted by memories, by fragments not real.
He could hear a tsk under the other man’s breath, and he permitted the snow to wrap around him, grinding his jaw together, the heat of his fever overwhelming. A large hand, imagined, placed itself across his forehead. ”How many times has it been now?” Deimos had no answer.
For what? And probably many.
Stone made no sound. She didn’t have to – the look she gave him was enough. His father took no such stance, snorting in the midst of his silence. ”Not your time yet. Not now, anyway. Gets old, taking you back and forth.” The monolith swallowed everything down, down, down, watched as the world around him blinded his sight with endless ivory. There was some fraction of rubble nearby – maybe the outline of the Citadel. He wouldn’t know anymore. He had no idea. He had nothing. ”Wasting yourself again though. You always sunk like a…” the ghost paused, glanced at Stone, and didn’t finish the joke.
Instead, perhaps more wisely than in his time alive, the infernal man glanced back down at his hushed son, as if he were the biggest fool. ”There will always be loss. But you have to learn to rise. Or this,” and he made a wide gesture with his hand, encompassing Deimos’ prone figure, busy hallucinating, ”Is all you’re ever going to be.” A light touch, a flick against his brow, and then they were gone. ”Think about it.” whispered against his ears – and then all he had was the clouds, and the ice, and Zuriel, and –
He closed his eyes.
They always had, truthfully, in the back of his mind when the day was done and slumber fell, when dreams ignited into the past and he saw eternal winter before his eyes. They whispered in the dead of night, in the glimpses of mornings, in the beckoning twilight where auroras had once burst, where he’d stood at the top of summits and felt alive.
He barely was now, anyway – stumbling, fumbling, chasing down figments, mind deluded, consumed, by subtle nuances, by siren wails of fury and stone. By the time he’d marched into the desolation, into the sparks of something more, something else, something he thought had once been his – before bones were buried in the sides, before he’d perished, before he’d been taken right into the rock and rubble themselves…
The beast fell, the monolith toppled, and he breathed, heavy, lungs yearning to collapse, as he rolled over to stare at the desolate sky. He could see, feel, Zuriel’s teeth snapping at his clothes, threatening to pull him, to drag him, to not let him remain there, eventually frozen.
The Sword did nothing but remain very still, waiting for the earth to bind and tear and sear him again. Maybe there’d be no bones left. No one would notice. No one would care. It’d been easy to slip away before, to just sink into the ground and die, exhausted and alone.
Because that’s how he lived and breathed and existed – alone.
”Again, son?”
A voice, familiar and long, long gone, pierced through the haze, and the ghost of his father crouched beside him – flames and infernos, embers coiled around his head, a crown of cinders and ash, and suddenly everything ached. He thought to turn away, brutally, bitterly ashamed, but he could see the rampant look of disapproval on his mother’s features from the corner of his gaze; trapped and haunted by memories, by fragments not real.
He could hear a tsk under the other man’s breath, and he permitted the snow to wrap around him, grinding his jaw together, the heat of his fever overwhelming. A large hand, imagined, placed itself across his forehead. ”How many times has it been now?” Deimos had no answer.
For what? And probably many.
Stone made no sound. She didn’t have to – the look she gave him was enough. His father took no such stance, snorting in the midst of his silence. ”Not your time yet. Not now, anyway. Gets old, taking you back and forth.” The monolith swallowed everything down, down, down, watched as the world around him blinded his sight with endless ivory. There was some fraction of rubble nearby – maybe the outline of the Citadel. He wouldn’t know anymore. He had no idea. He had nothing. ”Wasting yourself again though. You always sunk like a…” the ghost paused, glanced at Stone, and didn’t finish the joke.
Instead, perhaps more wisely than in his time alive, the infernal man glanced back down at his hushed son, as if he were the biggest fool. ”There will always be loss. But you have to learn to rise. Or this,” and he made a wide gesture with his hand, encompassing Deimos’ prone figure, busy hallucinating, ”Is all you’re ever going to be.” A light touch, a flick against his brow, and then they were gone. ”Think about it.” whispered against his ears – and then all he had was the clouds, and the ice, and Zuriel, and –
He closed his eyes.
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
