DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
But Kiada had made a choice too. And he still couldn’t, wouldn’t, begrudge, demean, or condemn her for it, the way she wanted to stick a barb into his side now. She’d been aware of the Voice, the tension, the weight, of everything before. She’d been immersed in it. She’d been maligned by it. And he couldn’t quite fathom how now she was perfectly fine with all of the notions, all of the nuances, all of the monstrous fringes and boundaries, save for how the Voice had saved her. Had given her another opportunity. Maybe that was the modicum of manipulation too – that the goddess had somehow plucked away the filaments and accord of bitterness, of rancor, of memories so tied, so tethered, so binding, and made her creations forgo the torment of before. His voice rumbled, and he stilled, as if a part of stone again, crushed under the weight of things that tore them apart. “I cannot forget all the things she has done. What she did to you, with the blight. Or the monsters. The Mathair.” And everything else laden in between. Had she forgotten about Ru’in so easily? How her own mother had been butchered and stabbed by the infidel’s methods? Did it no longer matter?
Did she expect him to change his entire being, all his beliefs, to throw it all away, simply because she had?
For some reason, he’d never thought them capable of it. Maybe it’d been naïve. Stupid. Foolish. Ignorant. Of turning upon one another. Of being on opposite ends. As if his love and protection would’ve been enough, as if it ever had been.
The Sword had been wrong about that too, so many god damned times.
He ignored the rumination of bargaining; he’d already cast it aside, had no idea why she mentioned it again. There was nothing to be done – their sentiments placed so wholly upon the angles of darkness, and he wondered if she could see how it brutalized and maimed him, how his features turned downcast, mournful, fleeting, as if she was already gone once more. As he could feel everything they’d ever accomplished together slipping away. Second chances withering, decaying, and things he couldn’t save her from, because she wouldn’t want it.
This had happened before – he could feel it in the echoes of his chest, in the way Amalia had chosen to leave him behind, in the way he’d been tossed aside, and it stuck fast in between his ribs and broke something encased within. Panic and trepidation dealt a heavy blow, warred and circumvented, remembering promises and how they unraveled. “Please do not go-,” and his hands pressed against his eyes, palms covering the wounds in his piercing gaze, elbows leaning forward until he thought he might break in two; the tall, proud structure faltering, buckling. And then Deimos thought he could ask no more of her, because she, like so many others before her, would flee anyway. “I love you. I told you that would not change.”
Did she expect him to change his entire being, all his beliefs, to throw it all away, simply because she had?
For some reason, he’d never thought them capable of it. Maybe it’d been naïve. Stupid. Foolish. Ignorant. Of turning upon one another. Of being on opposite ends. As if his love and protection would’ve been enough, as if it ever had been.
The Sword had been wrong about that too, so many god damned times.
He ignored the rumination of bargaining; he’d already cast it aside, had no idea why she mentioned it again. There was nothing to be done – their sentiments placed so wholly upon the angles of darkness, and he wondered if she could see how it brutalized and maimed him, how his features turned downcast, mournful, fleeting, as if she was already gone once more. As he could feel everything they’d ever accomplished together slipping away. Second chances withering, decaying, and things he couldn’t save her from, because she wouldn’t want it.
This had happened before – he could feel it in the echoes of his chest, in the way Amalia had chosen to leave him behind, in the way he’d been tossed aside, and it stuck fast in between his ribs and broke something encased within. Panic and trepidation dealt a heavy blow, warred and circumvented, remembering promises and how they unraveled. “Please do not go-,” and his hands pressed against his eyes, palms covering the wounds in his piercing gaze, elbows leaning forward until he thought he might break in two; the tall, proud structure faltering, buckling. And then Deimos thought he could ask no more of her, because she, like so many others before her, would flee anyway. “I love you. I told you that would not change.”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
