wild and bereft

DEIMOS MASTER OF NOTHING PLACE The world divided itself, and he didn’t know where to stand. It had happened before; there was always some political motion that some agreed upon and others didn’t. Kingdoms rose and fell with the gnashing of turbulent teeth and the strength, ferocity, of infernal convictions. Crusades and campaigns were launched on simple misgivings and broken promises. He could understand those nuances and notions, try as he might to avoid them entirely. The warrior based his operations solely on meticulous efforts with actions and maneuvers: preferred a battlefield over diplomacy, a range of savagery and destruction that could only be found on vicious assaults and sieges; everyone on the same, level playing ground, armed with purpose, with machinations, with daring. Isilme had its moments of hatred and depravity, had its flickering lights dim, had its shadow creep and crawl, had its rituals torn asunder and annihilated. But here, in Caido, where he was amongst and amidst the annals of ignorance, where he simply fought to have his head above water, he’d been branded lesser and the fool because he’d come here after them. Outlander; like it was a disease, like he’d chosen to sink himself into a sovereignty that detested his existence for merely breathing. He’d done his best, in only way the Reaper could, to assimilate, to comprehend, to survive, and hardly anything else had come after. It’d been about exploration, but chiefly about persevering, about enduring, about fortitude and might; no menace, no malice, no brandished history once sculpted and molded through his spine, his limbs, his heart, his lungs, his soul. So now what? What was the point? The purpose? What were they supposed to do? Ronin had died. The Spire Monster had been destroyed. The Spire still stood there, proud and beckoning for their hands to rip it apart. Some wanted out. Some wanted in. Some feared change. Some craved it with open arms. Deimos stood outside his house and piled more pieces of wood beneath the morning sun, hands busy, muscles in use, striving to come up with a plan, a means, a mission for himself and the others messily scattered in the aftermath. He’d asked what any of them wanted, and it hadn’t mattered; echoing back to him in silence, in hushed, quiet, voids. Perhaps they hadn’t longed to voice them. Maybe they didn’t have anything at all – only contempt, only hypocrisy, only madness stored in their throats, driven out of their bodies when men fell and consequences were rendered. The refrain started again, chilled its way through his mind, constant, one of those unwinding, uncoiling barbs pressing into his thoughts until that’s all it was – a refrain, a reverberation, a replica. What will you do now? OF RECOIL AND GRACE

Rexanna <3