DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Nothingness - and a clench of his jaw feathered, coiled, contorted, a measure behind his piercing eyes. To have heard Bastien longingly proclaim his earnestness to join Rexanna, and to hear it was naught, peeled away at him. His gaze fell to the ground for a moment, listening to the echoes of rain pouring against his ears (a ghost well acquainted, well cherished, well received now), to a calming fluctuation, breathing, slowly, carefully, until he could render some composition again.
That’s where he’d sent her. That’s where his actions had pushed her towards. That’s what his protection had meant.
Nothing.
And even if she didn’t blame him, even if she didn’t want that weight to fall back on his shoulders, it tore down the back of his throat, rooted in his lungs, in his spine, fledgling nettles and thorns again. “I am sorry to hear that. I had hoped-,” and he cut himself off, swallowing down the length of bile, carving it away from his ribs, stoking motivation, aspiration, trying to find the stitching, the strands, threatening to unfurl. “She would have some peace.” Maybe it was all the more reason to angle those determinations.
Another inhale was taken, and he could feel Zuriel’s maw on his elbow, some calming tether before he managed to either erupt, erode, or sink. Information nuanced and passed through though, his answer and responses seemingly accepted. But the wisdom and sagacity leaned towards more of the unknown, and his brows furrowed once more, deep in thought. High in the mountains, air thin and cold, but nothing from the Fangs. “There are mountains higher than the Fangs, then?” And what would it take to explore? To survive?
That’s where he’d sent her. That’s where his actions had pushed her towards. That’s what his protection had meant.
Nothing.
And even if she didn’t blame him, even if she didn’t want that weight to fall back on his shoulders, it tore down the back of his throat, rooted in his lungs, in his spine, fledgling nettles and thorns again. “I am sorry to hear that. I had hoped-,” and he cut himself off, swallowing down the length of bile, carving it away from his ribs, stoking motivation, aspiration, trying to find the stitching, the strands, threatening to unfurl. “She would have some peace.” Maybe it was all the more reason to angle those determinations.
Another inhale was taken, and he could feel Zuriel’s maw on his elbow, some calming tether before he managed to either erupt, erode, or sink. Information nuanced and passed through though, his answer and responses seemingly accepted. But the wisdom and sagacity leaned towards more of the unknown, and his brows furrowed once more, deep in thought. High in the mountains, air thin and cold, but nothing from the Fangs. “There are mountains higher than the Fangs, then?” And what would it take to explore? To survive?
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
