DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
With the blanket accepted, and seemingly no further complaints about the frigid air, the Sword furrowed his brows, listening to the words. As far as Kiada was concerned, he could at least be granted some modicum of relief – her soul wasn’t trapped, discarded, burnt apart – but there, wherever Mort’s realm happened to be, safe and whole once more.
Hotaru was a different story; and the fact that she hadn’t emerged in the sanctity and shelter meant she was still alive. His heart quickened, a tighter clenching in his chest, and though he yearned to ask where she happened to be, he wondered if she didn’t want to be found. If this was another one of her streaks of hiding, of biding her time, of swallowing down the wounds, mending in her own time and place.
But it would remain in the back of his mind.
“Okay. Thank you for checking,” (however that worked) he notioned, parsing through the information, nodding in acceptance of the answer, incapable of responding to the other inquiry – made by musings of apprehension. He lifted his eyes back to the herald, to rags stuffed under heavier weights of warmth. “Kiada had a quest, during LongNight, that she was not able to fulfill.” Did the deity remember each and every request? Each and every sketch of failures and triumphs? “I was wondering if I might attempt it, in her place.”
And then the rest, tumbling and stumbling through his calculations, not yearning to waste the being’s time. “I also wanted to know about freeing the Ascendeds’ souls.” His motives were strictly upon Rexanna – and he’d have no shame in admitting it – but the others’ at stake could be liberated once more too.
Hotaru was a different story; and the fact that she hadn’t emerged in the sanctity and shelter meant she was still alive. His heart quickened, a tighter clenching in his chest, and though he yearned to ask where she happened to be, he wondered if she didn’t want to be found. If this was another one of her streaks of hiding, of biding her time, of swallowing down the wounds, mending in her own time and place.
But it would remain in the back of his mind.
“Okay. Thank you for checking,” (however that worked) he notioned, parsing through the information, nodding in acceptance of the answer, incapable of responding to the other inquiry – made by musings of apprehension. He lifted his eyes back to the herald, to rags stuffed under heavier weights of warmth. “Kiada had a quest, during LongNight, that she was not able to fulfill.” Did the deity remember each and every request? Each and every sketch of failures and triumphs? “I was wondering if I might attempt it, in her place.”
And then the rest, tumbling and stumbling through his calculations, not yearning to waste the being’s time. “I also wanted to know about freeing the Ascendeds’ souls.” His motives were strictly upon Rexanna – and he’d have no shame in admitting it – but the others’ at stake could be liberated once more too.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
