DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
The words coiled around him, and he had some argument, some sentiment, some rumination, stored in his jaw. She wouldn’t have been suffering here either; with her friends, with her family, with the child she’d worked so hard to obtain, to love. But that wasn’t how the world ever worked. It tossed them about, tested their fortifications, and he could feel his crumbling again, the steadfast ramparts buckling under the strain of knowledge, of sagacity, of ignorance being shed. Would he have felt better if he’d never come to see this demigod at all, if he’d never asked, if he’d merely left it all alone?
But he couldn’t, wouldn’t, and a thousand apologies sent within dreams and lanterns weren’t going to fix things. And the Sword knew, knew in his heart he couldn’t bring her back, and this might be the only thing left.
Another intake of breath, of lungs collecting and holding fast, of an instinctual pull to render himself into that glacial wake, into that reticent expanse, shifted over his features – turning the pain into figments, into fractions, until later. Later when he could climb back into those darker shrouds and lay waste to something else. The uncertainty thereafter didn’t help, beyond views of gods – as if the whole damned thing was impossible.
And yet, because Deimos had been born into stubbornness, into tenacity, into a seditious blend of obstinance, perseverance, and vehemence, there was no hesitation in his answer. “Yes.” His eyes narrowed, speculation twisting back into him. “Are you?” Measure for measure, blade for blade, ghosts for ghosts. “How would these souls be gathered?” Taken? Snagged again? Or was that chipping more into the unknown, questions for when they were capable?
But he couldn’t, wouldn’t, and a thousand apologies sent within dreams and lanterns weren’t going to fix things. And the Sword knew, knew in his heart he couldn’t bring her back, and this might be the only thing left.
Another intake of breath, of lungs collecting and holding fast, of an instinctual pull to render himself into that glacial wake, into that reticent expanse, shifted over his features – turning the pain into figments, into fractions, until later. Later when he could climb back into those darker shrouds and lay waste to something else. The uncertainty thereafter didn’t help, beyond views of gods – as if the whole damned thing was impossible.
And yet, because Deimos had been born into stubbornness, into tenacity, into a seditious blend of obstinance, perseverance, and vehemence, there was no hesitation in his answer. “Yes.” His eyes narrowed, speculation twisting back into him. “Are you?” Measure for measure, blade for blade, ghosts for ghosts. “How would these souls be gathered?” Taken? Snagged again? Or was that chipping more into the unknown, questions for when they were capable?
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
