Whoa, you let your feet run wild
Time has come as we all go down
His time was limited, and the more he inclined towards the portal, the more he wondered if it was worth it. If he could do this another day, another hour, when the emotions weren’t so raw and reeling, when everything didn’t want to shackle and knot around his neck, when his ribs weren’t carved into stark, brutal edges. But there were trips to be had, plans to be made, and the past to filter and flicker through – and along all the familiar pathways, past the Bakery, past Kiada’s house, and into his own was like a walk through a time that had once felt so infinite. Untouchable. Unattainable. Unreachable. Until it was simply gone – and he walked into his own home, empty and vast and barren now, collecting fragments he could still render viable, a note left from familiar writing he couldn’t bear to read at the moment (clutched tightly, shoved into a spare pocket), and anything else of worth, of value, of substance.
Within a few shuddering moments, he knew he couldn’t do it, couldn’t bear it a second longer, and fled the confines, reeling outside, back onto the porch. A slam of the door, and he could return later, later, later, when his eyes didn’t immediately go towards the Harpy’s domicile, when his heart didn’t threaten to burst, when he didn't recall final words from a Shield, when he didn’t search and seek out the primordial span of shadows from the Outskirts.
He sat on the steps and gathered himself, sharp, sharp, sharp inhales that felt like nettles in his lungs, before rising again, and grabbing hold of a few other adornments, objects, that would no longer be his to claim. The Sword had no idea of anyone else’s status as of late; he’d wandered off in the midst of everything else, and shuffling over to the Notice Board offered more pain, more lacerations, and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to be a ghost in the backdrop.
A book under his arm, and a marching ministration to his stride as he lost precious hours and moments wiling away in his own misery, he came towards a familiar domicile, uncertain if the occupant would even be there. Uncertain about everything nowadays. But he raised his fist and prospered a heavy knock, permitting it to ricochet over the wooden structure, resounding like echoes, like hollowed bits of hell, like cast-iron reminders of everything he was leaving behind.
Within a few shuddering moments, he knew he couldn’t do it, couldn’t bear it a second longer, and fled the confines, reeling outside, back onto the porch. A slam of the door, and he could return later, later, later, when his eyes didn’t immediately go towards the Harpy’s domicile, when his heart didn’t threaten to burst, when he didn't recall final words from a Shield, when he didn’t search and seek out the primordial span of shadows from the Outskirts.
He sat on the steps and gathered himself, sharp, sharp, sharp inhales that felt like nettles in his lungs, before rising again, and grabbing hold of a few other adornments, objects, that would no longer be his to claim. The Sword had no idea of anyone else’s status as of late; he’d wandered off in the midst of everything else, and shuffling over to the Notice Board offered more pain, more lacerations, and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to be a ghost in the backdrop.
A book under his arm, and a marching ministration to his stride as he lost precious hours and moments wiling away in his own misery, he came towards a familiar domicile, uncertain if the occupant would even be there. Uncertain about everything nowadays. But he raised his fist and prospered a heavy knock, permitting it to ricochet over the wooden structure, resounding like echoes, like hollowed bits of hell, like cast-iron reminders of everything he was leaving behind.
Yeah but for the fall—oh, my—
Do you dare to look them right in the eyes?
DEIMOS
