DEIMOS
ache first, but then let the cuts close
spit out the blood
spit out the blood
Turning points and focal views; what he likely should’ve done ages and ages before, when not so mired, when not so pulled in different directions. Tangled, curled, and coiled, with naught more than frustrations and the knowing onslaught closing in, the General threaded his way through crowds, towards Citadels and their shrines. Too many frustrations rooted their way into his soul, and it was gnarled, emboldened, ignorant, and knotted with the bridging of gaps and the closing of ties. In the way that he’d known, perhaps in some proportions, that this was coming sooner or later.
And so he bowed his head, could feel the stakes bunching and colliding through his shoulders, and still stood before the precipice, Zuriel there at his side. Much as he’d always done, he lifted his bag, and bestowed gifts upon the mantle, created by his own hands and incantations: a necklace with matching earrings, embroidered, embedded, and detailed as though it’d been infused with stars, and a lantern meant to signify galaxies and constellations; outlined in figments of the goddess herself.
Then he inhaled sharply, piercing eyes fixed on the gifts, the wall, anything and everything without truly taking anything in – senses heightened, looming, waiting. “Safrin, I seek your infinite wisdom and guidance.” And he’d have to admit it – that he’d followed after those ruminations and speculations, those portals of time and space and history, when she’d been the first to answer his call. For strength. For abilities he would’ve never had otherwise. And maybe it was finally time to repay the favor.
The apprehension stirred and he persisted, rankling over the edges; nerves upon nerves with a thundering, mighty, stalwart heart. “How can I aid you in the fight against the Voice?”
And so he bowed his head, could feel the stakes bunching and colliding through his shoulders, and still stood before the precipice, Zuriel there at his side. Much as he’d always done, he lifted his bag, and bestowed gifts upon the mantle, created by his own hands and incantations: a necklace with matching earrings, embroidered, embedded, and detailed as though it’d been infused with stars, and a lantern meant to signify galaxies and constellations; outlined in figments of the goddess herself.
Then he inhaled sharply, piercing eyes fixed on the gifts, the wall, anything and everything without truly taking anything in – senses heightened, looming, waiting. “Safrin, I seek your infinite wisdom and guidance.” And he’d have to admit it – that he’d followed after those ruminations and speculations, those portals of time and space and history, when she’d been the first to answer his call. For strength. For abilities he would’ve never had otherwise. And maybe it was finally time to repay the favor.
The apprehension stirred and he persisted, rankling over the edges; nerves upon nerves with a thundering, mighty, stalwart heart. “How can I aid you in the fight against the Voice?”
watch your body pull itself back together
then let your soul do the same
then let your soul do the same
