DEIMOS
ache first, but then let the cuts close
spit out the blood
spit out the blood
A sigh bounded and leapt from his chest, because he didn’t like to talk about how he’d been carved and sculpted out of war. Out of battles. Out of skirmishes. Out of trial after trial, tribulation after tribulation. Pain and torment and agony had consumed him until he was a numbed, nonchalant vessel and shell. It was easier. It was simpler. No need to look inward. No need to notice what he hadn’t become or what he’d never accomplished. No need to see all the things and people he’d lost along the way.
The ghosts stayed with him anyway, and haunted him now, as he fought the notion to stare down at the floor and become every bit a part of it. So he shook his head, and looked her in the eyes once more – the self-loathing evident, the animosity for his own soul apparent. “It was not always that way. But I went to war, watched my friends die, and I could never reach them in time. And it happened over and over and over.” His parents. Huyana. The World’s Edge. The Aurora Basin. Rexanna. Amalia. Kiada. Hotaru. “I believed if I could grow stronger, I could save them. I tried to defend children from being abducted. I tried to slay those who wanted to take from our lands. I was consumed by it.” And it’d been every waking moment of his life – surrounded and mired in the power of damnation and death. That was how he’d lived. That was how he’d died. “That is what I know how to do.” Gain fortitude. Become powerful. Destroy. And try not to ache along the way.
The Sword narrowed his eyes in return, hands balling into fists down by his sides, before releasing the tension through his shoulders, through his spine, the piercing depths of his gaze unwavering and absolute. “I do care. I care about the people I protect. I care about those I consider my friends and family.” The ones who managed to bombard and climb over those walls; even though he couldn’t fathom why they bothered.
And then the notion hit him, in the furrowing of his brows and the realization pressing over his lungs. He released the fleeting edges like he’d only just now considered them. “I do not care about myself.”
And that’s how he’d become a weapon before, and how he lived as one now. It was easier to throw himself in front of sea panthers or monsters, easier to hasten a shield, easier to take down a burning building and stand in front of flames, than give one ounce about himself. Or to watch those he cherished suffer, mired in their wounds. And maybe that hadn’t really been living at all. The beast managed a small, hollow laugh thereafter, though it edged into sadness, into sorrow, on the ends. "Perhaps that needs to change."
The ghosts stayed with him anyway, and haunted him now, as he fought the notion to stare down at the floor and become every bit a part of it. So he shook his head, and looked her in the eyes once more – the self-loathing evident, the animosity for his own soul apparent. “It was not always that way. But I went to war, watched my friends die, and I could never reach them in time. And it happened over and over and over.” His parents. Huyana. The World’s Edge. The Aurora Basin. Rexanna. Amalia. Kiada. Hotaru. “I believed if I could grow stronger, I could save them. I tried to defend children from being abducted. I tried to slay those who wanted to take from our lands. I was consumed by it.” And it’d been every waking moment of his life – surrounded and mired in the power of damnation and death. That was how he’d lived. That was how he’d died. “That is what I know how to do.” Gain fortitude. Become powerful. Destroy. And try not to ache along the way.
The Sword narrowed his eyes in return, hands balling into fists down by his sides, before releasing the tension through his shoulders, through his spine, the piercing depths of his gaze unwavering and absolute. “I do care. I care about the people I protect. I care about those I consider my friends and family.” The ones who managed to bombard and climb over those walls; even though he couldn’t fathom why they bothered.
And then the notion hit him, in the furrowing of his brows and the realization pressing over his lungs. He released the fleeting edges like he’d only just now considered them. “I do not care about myself.”
And that’s how he’d become a weapon before, and how he lived as one now. It was easier to throw himself in front of sea panthers or monsters, easier to hasten a shield, easier to take down a burning building and stand in front of flames, than give one ounce about himself. Or to watch those he cherished suffer, mired in their wounds. And maybe that hadn’t really been living at all. The beast managed a small, hollow laugh thereafter, though it edged into sadness, into sorrow, on the ends. "Perhaps that needs to change."
watch your body pull itself back together
then let your soul do the same
then let your soul do the same
