runaway

KIADA you love each other, you do, and here's the tragedy; it's not enough. He was a shield and he was a sword, Kiada had been molded to be the same. The events that had lead to each of them becoming the same had been different, but the end result made them equals. And she watches him, warily for a moment as he nods and gives her the faintest of a grin, a raised brow, as he speaks of training and scheming, and she nods with him in agreement. She doesn’t really know what to say back, yet, and so she keeps her voice quiet, the tears that had brimmed along her eyes slowly reabsorbing as she looks toward the future. “And we work together.” He says and she nods, her eyes never leaving the strong and sharp panes of his face. “Together.” She responds, reiterating the point. She does her best to offer him a half smile, her mind internally scrambling and uncertain of what to do or where to go now. But she inhales deeply again, sighing quietly through her nose as she picks them apart to work on them one by one. And she does them in the order that he has told her. Train. And so she begins to focus on that, to hone her edges, to make her a stronger and better fighter and person from it. If anyone knew how Kiada was when it came to fighting, it was Deimos. He would know that she’d get her hands dirty and bloody without a second thought. It seemed now she only needed to begin the process of bruised and bloody hands. you are allowed; to watch the sun swallow him whole and burn him up, to stain your fingers to the bone holding him together. to count the constellations in his eyes as they blink out. but you are not allowed to save him...

DEIMOS

There were different sorts of provocateurs. Some were agents of discord amidst their discourse, their dialogue, locking down pandemics and acrimony through their fluid, anarchical words – chaos unfurling from their tongues. He had an image of a golden fox, haunting the edges of the Aurora Basin, not wielding a sword, but his teeth, his fangs, his language, to inspire and incite. Unfortunately, neither he nor Kiada were these sorts – collected, composed, coiled, action over eloquence, jumping into the fray, ensuring their opinions were heard through vigilance, through vehemence, through violence. It was this understanding that had carried them to these points, how he’d managed to survive for eons in multiple lifelines and trials, because they all knew at some point he’d clench his jaw, forgo apathy, indifference, or reticence, and fight. Maybe that’s what they needed to do now, dig deep into their marrow, into their flesh and bone, into the state of their irreverent rapture, and remember what they’d always been. Monsters. Fiends. Demons. Blackguards. Children of fire, of ice, of barbarity, of stone, of Stygian interludes and blackened masks, treading through open flame with little regard for themselves; the end results before their eyes. Their convictions were in themselves, and not the space, the piety, or the promises in between; there was no time to be guided by tyrants, by legions of leashed parameters. They’d never done it before – why were they starting now?

“If you need anything, come to my home.” His eyes were narrowed, revealing naught of the intentions simmering beneath, the granules of sedition and insurrection pushing and pulling at his flesh. Now, it hummed in the dredges of his mind, recoiling and begging to be unleashed. The time is now. “I have a variety of weapons.” And he’d willingly outfit his friends with whatever they required.

i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky