wash away our sore eyed souls

D e i m o s

Send a heartbeat to the void that cries through you
Relive the pictures that have come to pass

The fathoms of his nefarious heart clawed, ached, as Jigano explained the circumstances after the Reaper’s departure, a sigh sliding unbidden from his chest, looking down at joined hands while the bard wove the despondent story. The tulmhainar went into the void, the great beyond, heavens and outstretched clouds, too fargone, too broken, too ancient, a primordial, primeval creature not meant to exist any longer, no matter how much effort they’d put into the sojourn. Then Safrin had joined in the reverie, striving to bring the sky to the earth, opening up the blistering abyss, and then a star fallen, gone from the constellations and Elysium. Gone. The understanding flanked and lacerated around his exhausted mind, the comprehension building and billowing from Amalia’s constant silence, her downcast eyes, the intertwining aches and anguish lingering well after the damage had been done. “Thank you,” he inclined to Jigano, incapable of mustering anything beyond the notion for the moment – caught and strangled by too many sentiments, circumstances, and emotions. Because he’d never been in a god’s path, lit by stars, suns, time, or their machinations. They’d never wanted to do anything with him – and he’d learned what it was like to be naught in their eyes. He survived by carving his way through anything and everything, by devoting strength in his upheavals, in his pursuits, in his perseverance and fortitude. But he’d never thought one would fall, sputtering from their fortresses, dimmed and vanished. Kiada’s offering of a drink distracted him for an instant, returning her nod, the depth of his stare, the hundreds of inquiries and reassurances clambering around it, trying to make this all work again, but uncertain as to how. There was nothing else in the sphere, in the bakery, except the haunting weight of silence, except the clench and pull of disaster. Ruin – he was so familiar with it now that it shouldn’t have been poignant and heavy, but there it remained, locking him up in stone and desecration. His free hand took hold of the tall glass and chugged half of it, encouraging the burn down the back of his throat, the zeal and fervor of its torment into his being, punishment for punishment, waiting for it to numb his senses too. The other one grasped tighter on Amalia’s, an anchor, because that was all he could be now, trying hard to not let her sink into the abyss. He’s been there before, and the distinction of its clarity was abhorrent. She was always the one who knelt before the deities, the beacons, praying, lending herself to their services. She was always the one they cherished, consecrated and anointed, loved and devoted because she was devoted – an admirable strength and quality, where he’d long since given up hope. And now what? he wanted to ask, the push and pull ricocheting through the cobwebs of his mind. Then the baker finally raised her eyes, iron across her tongue, his eyes softening a shard and glancing at the floor, absorbing her steel and belief through words alone. He could believe her, when he couldn’t begin to place trust in the celestial beings. The warrior didn’t know if Safrin was dead or not, had no connection, had no bearing with stars and their favored – perceived and recognized the bounties of death and oblivion, but hardly anything else -  the words in his throat, an echo, meant to soothe, meant to conspire amidst the gathered. It had to be something besides the grief, the aches, and the pains. “She is not,” he affirmed with no bearing, no weight, no way to comprehend. When she presumed to take the cumbersome load of the failure upon her figure, he aimed to cease it. “It is not your fault. You did not know the tulmhainar’s fate.” Or that goddesses made mistakes too – strangely human despite everything else. For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate