DEIMOS
ache first, but then let the cuts close
spit out the blood
spit out the blood
At her first statement, he snorted, a pinch forming between his brows, either in anger or frustration, and a shake of his head, perhaps one of the first denials and defenses he could muster over his own character. “War is not won by a single person. I did my part. I fought my battles. I survived.” And he had been good at his proportions – slaying, brutalizing, cutting through where he needed to. He simply couldn’t reach everyone. He simply couldn’t do everything. “I chose to be a soldier. I know how to fight, and I know how to endure. I want to protect others.” On the other notion though, his brows furrowed further, as if struck by a realization that his friends had likely tried to place into his head more than a hundred times. His gaze swept back up to hers, notched and lined with some aspect of confusion or bewilderment. "Am I striving to redeem myself for something I could not control?"
And she could tap his forehead all she wanted, and see within, but there were so many other factors, so many other sieges, so many other moments besides tents and wolves. The Reaper and Mirage had been the ones to fortify peace, after his own Queen had fallen, had ceased, had desisted, had been naught but pieces of her anarchy. He’d led command of a world that struck back at those daring to come upon, after, them. “They were plans of our kingdom.” Not solely his. “That is what occurred, and I cannot change the past.”
The statement unfurled from his own mouth and he blinked – as if the facets hadn’t ever embedded in his brain before, hadn’t come to fruition until now - over and over again, a numbness lifting. “But I can change.” Somehow. In some way. He just didn’t know where to start or where it began.
But then everything tumbled thereafter, and the seething weight of his own self-hatred pierced and punctured and hurt; and the Sword’s stare went back to the floor. “Then what do I do with it?” This grief and these walls and companions who didn’t care?
And she could tap his forehead all she wanted, and see within, but there were so many other factors, so many other sieges, so many other moments besides tents and wolves. The Reaper and Mirage had been the ones to fortify peace, after his own Queen had fallen, had ceased, had desisted, had been naught but pieces of her anarchy. He’d led command of a world that struck back at those daring to come upon, after, them. “They were plans of our kingdom.” Not solely his. “That is what occurred, and I cannot change the past.”
The statement unfurled from his own mouth and he blinked – as if the facets hadn’t ever embedded in his brain before, hadn’t come to fruition until now - over and over again, a numbness lifting. “But I can change.” Somehow. In some way. He just didn’t know where to start or where it began.
But then everything tumbled thereafter, and the seething weight of his own self-hatred pierced and punctured and hurt; and the Sword’s stare went back to the floor. “Then what do I do with it?” This grief and these walls and companions who didn’t care?
watch your body pull itself back together
then let your soul do the same
then let your soul do the same
