DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
There was half a moment where he wondered if demigods merely existed to serve those gods, by the way she answered, by the way it seemed to flicker and flow, a repeated rendition, a refrain. If that was all there was to them – and though he knew it wasn’t true, based on Amalia, Remi, and Ronin, he could only ponder if there were leashes, ties, and tethers to their efforts, if there were choices, but very few. Or if it mattered little, because that was what they craved, yearned, and wanted to do, to be.
He left the speculations behind, arching his brow only slightly at the surprise in her face. Perhaps not many cared. Perhaps not many had voiced the same concerns. Understandable, given the nature of the world – too many other things laboring their way through hell and back.
But his was finite and sentimental, motivated as always, by those he cherished. “My friend, an Ascended, perished. She will not be able to see her family again.” Until they passed along too – Kiada with Mort, Rexanna somewhere else – but if they freed them all, wouldn’t Bastien or Azrael have a place within those thresholds? Something pulsed in the back of his mind, and he sought the nuances this time, voice steady, compelled, strong, a rumble in the grove. “Do you believe they achieve the same contentment within the Voice’s hold, as they would with Mort?” Was he implementing something, or striving for a purpose, some wouldn’t want for themselves? And if so – who were they to decide for them? A matter of concern, within the orchestrations of free will, for those not wishing, not craving, similar sentiments.
He left the speculations behind, arching his brow only slightly at the surprise in her face. Perhaps not many cared. Perhaps not many had voiced the same concerns. Understandable, given the nature of the world – too many other things laboring their way through hell and back.
But his was finite and sentimental, motivated as always, by those he cherished. “My friend, an Ascended, perished. She will not be able to see her family again.” Until they passed along too – Kiada with Mort, Rexanna somewhere else – but if they freed them all, wouldn’t Bastien or Azrael have a place within those thresholds? Something pulsed in the back of his mind, and he sought the nuances this time, voice steady, compelled, strong, a rumble in the grove. “Do you believe they achieve the same contentment within the Voice’s hold, as they would with Mort?” Was he implementing something, or striving for a purpose, some wouldn’t want for themselves? And if so – who were they to decide for them? A matter of concern, within the orchestrations of free will, for those not wishing, not craving, similar sentiments.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
