[se] came back alive

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Even in victories, there was always a little bit of hollowed, emptied proportions. Wounds not quite sealed, not quite sewn, not quite alleviated. Perhaps where fallen comrades laid, in between ribcages and hearts, carried on by regrets. Maybe in minds, too honed and sharpened for specific piercing, for a warrior’s vendetta incapable of being fully reached. For aspirations too lofty, too grand, too ignorant, of the specious interludes fallen amongst the dead. So he listened and listened and listened, the experiences of his own lives muddled in war, as if sometimes that was all he’d ever been made of, warping the land around him. For a few moments, he was quiet, silent, like a grave, like a tomb, before tilting his head, becoming something more than a statue.  “Because survivors have the aftermath.” And even in his years of maintaining battlefield experiences, that was something he couldn’t teach. Not until the world had it for themselves. No glory. No banners raised. No mighty songs sung for the ones who came home. “We try to rationalize and understand.” By way of distraction, or so that his thoughts had more than voice, he began to contort the water, bit by bit, drop by drop, until portions of the puddle began to twirl and contort in amongst themselves. “We ask ourselves why our friends did not live. Or why we were not enough. If there was a different way. If things could have gone better.” And they always could have; because for some reason they believed no one would die, salvation would be restored, armistices would remain intact. But those lines were for the ignorant and innocent; fairy tales read to children so they could become emboldened things, instead of broken, embittered, rancorous edges. Then, for a recitation of views he’d had to pierce and puncture through his own skull. “And ultimately, it does not matter. Because we cannot go back.” Even now, in the bridges and backbones of his mistakes, he wished he could. The water in his depths, in his incantations, became an image of mountains, rather than monsters; beatific and peaked, grand and wondrous, and then his eyes finally settled back on her. They’d known LongNight was going to be a mess. That hadn’t been a surprise. It was just the reality of it sliding, grabbing, and not quite relinquishing. “You just move forward and attempt to be more the next time. Because we can learn.” master of nothing place; of recoil and grace