i wonder which will get you killed faster - your loyalty
He knew – Amalia always tried. While some lingered back, while some plotted, while some devised, she rushed forward with every ounce of determination and faith. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t. And that hadn’t been pinned on her either. He’d never placed the blame on anyone, not Amalia, not the void, not Tanau – just circumstances gone horrifically wrong. Cyclical in their destruction, wheels of demolition, shifting when it was another’s turn (and they still fought, sought to disengage the needle).
So he nodded, swallowing down the other emotions, the heartache, the pain that came from constant loss, from abandonment. The soft utterance following the confession of so many things coiled and nestled its way into his mind, and he tried to repeat it like an echo, like a reverberation, until it could sound true and right.
Not your fault.
Not your fault.
Not your fault.
The Sword had heard it before, from other bellows, howls, and mantras, but might not have been ready to embrace it, follow it, understand it. Too busy fighting himself, gnashing and biting and clawing, and then succumbing to the hollowed portions. It sunk in now, tracing over the foundations, the walls, the cracks, and along the surface, so he could breathe again. “Thank you,” he whispered, another squeeze of his hand, for being able to see him, know him, and dig down deep into where it lingered and hurt most. To pull, to tug, to not leave him there.
But thereafter were the traces of other threats, and his piercing eyes remained on hers, watched and witnessed the feral maelstroms return – though he wouldn’t have wanted it this way. Words with contempt and fire, embers and wrath, fortitude and might, things that had composed the girl from the very beginning, looming there even after death and rebirth. Renewals and resurrections gone in alternating directions, uncertain what the path would be now, or what laid ahead. “I know.” We will not let them contorted and punctured through his thoughts; but he didn’t want to make any more false promises, any vows, any assurances that they may not be able to keep. “We will figure it out,” came instead, a declaration of working together, amongst and amidst the others, of waylaying whatever ominous beacons crept along.
Then he swept forward, tracing over the confidences he could share, the truths, the knowns, hands placed on either side of her face, along her cheeks, intending to push them together so she’d resemble a fish. “I love you, kid. That will never change.” If she had any doubts, any hesitations, any uncertainties, he wanted to ensure it was not with him. That he was still that brutal beacon, that protective guard, that shelter and sanctuary in the coming storm. “I am sorry if I did not say it enough.”
He released her, with the slightest smile dimpling in the corner of his mouth, a sigh flickering through. “And what about your journey? How do you feel?”
So he nodded, swallowing down the other emotions, the heartache, the pain that came from constant loss, from abandonment. The soft utterance following the confession of so many things coiled and nestled its way into his mind, and he tried to repeat it like an echo, like a reverberation, until it could sound true and right.
Not your fault.
Not your fault.
Not your fault.
The Sword had heard it before, from other bellows, howls, and mantras, but might not have been ready to embrace it, follow it, understand it. Too busy fighting himself, gnashing and biting and clawing, and then succumbing to the hollowed portions. It sunk in now, tracing over the foundations, the walls, the cracks, and along the surface, so he could breathe again. “Thank you,” he whispered, another squeeze of his hand, for being able to see him, know him, and dig down deep into where it lingered and hurt most. To pull, to tug, to not leave him there.
But thereafter were the traces of other threats, and his piercing eyes remained on hers, watched and witnessed the feral maelstroms return – though he wouldn’t have wanted it this way. Words with contempt and fire, embers and wrath, fortitude and might, things that had composed the girl from the very beginning, looming there even after death and rebirth. Renewals and resurrections gone in alternating directions, uncertain what the path would be now, or what laid ahead. “I know.” We will not let them contorted and punctured through his thoughts; but he didn’t want to make any more false promises, any vows, any assurances that they may not be able to keep. “We will figure it out,” came instead, a declaration of working together, amongst and amidst the others, of waylaying whatever ominous beacons crept along.
Then he swept forward, tracing over the confidences he could share, the truths, the knowns, hands placed on either side of her face, along her cheeks, intending to push them together so she’d resemble a fish. “I love you, kid. That will never change.” If she had any doubts, any hesitations, any uncertainties, he wanted to ensure it was not with him. That he was still that brutal beacon, that protective guard, that shelter and sanctuary in the coming storm. “I am sorry if I did not say it enough.”
He released her, with the slightest smile dimpling in the corner of his mouth, a sigh flickering through. “And what about your journey? How do you feel?”
or your stubbornness?
DEIMOS
