DEIMOS
Deimos was useless. She must’ve known it, must’ve sensed it, must’ve understood it. He was ineffectual in these pathways, in these intervals, where Gods lingered and toyed with mortals, brandished their wisdom upon those they deemed worthy, and scoffed at those they did not. Sometimes it was silence when he crouched before them, begging and pleading, sometimes it was mocking, an exploitation of what he was – how they didn’t like those with bloodlines infused with incantations, enchantments. He’d tried, starved for wisdom and sagacity, because he didn’t know what to do, didn’t know how to act, had hoped for safe returns of those clutching at him – and none of it had mattered.
He’d been taught to school his features into absolute nothingness, even when his heart drummed, even when it reverberated and echoed and bounded with apprehension. He didn’t want to ruin this for her. He didn’t want to be the reason none of the deities showed up, especially when she craved guidance, especially when they all wanted something to cling to in the midst and murk, in the seditious spread. His hand clutched and grasped, fingers wrapped around hers, waiting for her to realize he was worthless in these venues, in these abilities, scattered dust and mere particles of earth. “Amalia,” he tried to say, before they got too far, before he marred and bludgeoned and blemished simply because of who, of what, he was. “They will not come with me here.”
But she didn’t seem to care – her acceptance and tolerance a far greater expanse than any of the deities and celestial beings. So he tried to blend into the background when she finally broke free of him, when she pleaded to Vi and Mort, when he had no ability, no possible way, to ever know, understand, or comprehend what these creations and cosmic individuals were like.
I don’t know what to do.
Neither did he – except for the clear, ringing clarity of insurrection beating in his chest.
He’d been taught to school his features into absolute nothingness, even when his heart drummed, even when it reverberated and echoed and bounded with apprehension. He didn’t want to ruin this for her. He didn’t want to be the reason none of the deities showed up, especially when she craved guidance, especially when they all wanted something to cling to in the midst and murk, in the seditious spread. His hand clutched and grasped, fingers wrapped around hers, waiting for her to realize he was worthless in these venues, in these abilities, scattered dust and mere particles of earth. “Amalia,” he tried to say, before they got too far, before he marred and bludgeoned and blemished simply because of who, of what, he was. “They will not come with me here.”
But she didn’t seem to care – her acceptance and tolerance a far greater expanse than any of the deities and celestial beings. So he tried to blend into the background when she finally broke free of him, when she pleaded to Vi and Mort, when he had no ability, no possible way, to ever know, understand, or comprehend what these creations and cosmic individuals were like.
I don’t know what to do.
Neither did he – except for the clear, ringing clarity of insurrection beating in his chest.
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
