DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Muddling through was an apt term, if Deimos could even describe his attempts in the same league. More or less dragging himself through the muck, the mire, the endless, damned abyss, each time, each moment, each loss bringing the surface higher and higher, until he wasn’t sure he could reach anymore. Until he wasn’t sure if he should. The weight strung along his shoulders was overbearing, overwhelming, to begin with, and combined between everything else, the monolith could only stand so much longer. It might’ve been a comfort to break. So the Sword nodded at the Firebrand, as if motioning his understanding, gaze drawn over crystal fragments, over figments that could’ve instigated curiosity, if the foundations of plaguing, reeling vestiges weren’t already battering him.
He didn’t quite know what to do with the kindness extended towards him – never really had; too many lives spent in infamy, disaster, calamity, and ruin – stare riveting back to the lion, a quaking, shuddering breath filling his lungs. It would’ve been far easier to let it go with a shake of his head, to refuse and relent and collapse in on his own time, but Loren would know. Loren would comprehend. Loren had experienced it much the same. “I am tired of losing everyone,” came on a deeper rumble. “And I do not know what to do about it anymore.” Because his protection, his promised salvation, his shelter in the storm, hadn’t helped them. Hadn’t kept them at his side. Zuriel glanced at him, and he swallowed down a multitude of other feelings rising up like bile, gaze flickering to the luxere, scratching at Astra’s head when there was comfort extended.
But then they had to move on, and this wasn’t where Kiada fell, so his heart didn’t hammer quite so loudly, and his machinations weren’t required – save for inspecting the caverns. Calloused fingers brushed against some of the crystals, tilting his head, before relinquishing the motions, and following Loren to the center.
He didn’t quite know what to do with the kindness extended towards him – never really had; too many lives spent in infamy, disaster, calamity, and ruin – stare riveting back to the lion, a quaking, shuddering breath filling his lungs. It would’ve been far easier to let it go with a shake of his head, to refuse and relent and collapse in on his own time, but Loren would know. Loren would comprehend. Loren had experienced it much the same. “I am tired of losing everyone,” came on a deeper rumble. “And I do not know what to do about it anymore.” Because his protection, his promised salvation, his shelter in the storm, hadn’t helped them. Hadn’t kept them at his side. Zuriel glanced at him, and he swallowed down a multitude of other feelings rising up like bile, gaze flickering to the luxere, scratching at Astra’s head when there was comfort extended.
But then they had to move on, and this wasn’t where Kiada fell, so his heart didn’t hammer quite so loudly, and his machinations weren’t required – save for inspecting the caverns. Calloused fingers brushed against some of the crystals, tilting his head, before relinquishing the motions, and following Loren to the center.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
