[se] when another is gone

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame The rain flickered down, down, down, in soft whispers, in the cascades over scars, in the maelstrom, in the dream. The droplets cascaded over his scalp and brows, gentle and familiar, elements of another time and place, another world, in juxtapositions of peace and repose. Subtle nuances traced over his form, whispers in the dark. You cannot build a home in people, it spoke, wrapped and enveloped over his ears, and he nodded in his sleep, like he understood, turning into the subtle showers. Just like he’d always done – never looking away. They change too much. They grow. They wither. Soft and hushed, a pulse, a pull, of other things he’d lost; mere shadows and ghosts, wraiths and phantoms, figments he failed to protect and heal and persuade. I tried he wanted to scream in the midst of the decaying reaches, on the ashes left in his wake. The rain didn’t subside, didn’t retreat, but flickered on the end of his nose and on his cheeks, faint and dulcet; I know they called back. You tried so hard. Light and feathery, wisps of nothingness pervaded his soul, and he didn’t want to awaken, knowing it wouldn’t be there – none of it. Eventually the dream eased away too, and the encroaching anguish returned, eyelids lifting to see the wall he stared upon within the Infirmary, strange and unfamiliar, save for the amount of stone, save for something in the back of his mind, a scratching of caves and refugee wares. A shudder maneuvered through him, caught in the throes of another feverish pitch, and he curled further, a contortion of warmth required, for fire and brimstone, for hell and damnation. Delirium seared, bit, infused, until he shifted to stare out at the other occupants, at the realm he found himself within – Zuriel at some point managing to sneak in, curled below the bed, perhaps suddenly driven by sedition too. The Sword felt hollow and empty, bereft and wild, and remained very still for a moment, like that of a predator waiting its favored ambush; piercing, frenetic, restless gaze sliding over every inch of the domicile. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace