Hang hallowed halos

Deimos The stories seemed complete; hastened back into the unfolded tales. She didn’t ask about his: and perhaps that was for the best, laden heartaches and torment tossed amongst patterns of insurrection and bleeding foes, graves dug, lives lost, a hardened beast grow back into iron and determination and brooding fixtures again. Maybe she already knew, maybe she already sensed, maybe she, because she’d scorned and scorched too, simply presumed all of the measures, had seen enough to know enough, and his intervals between worlds, savagery, and mistakes wouldn’t have to be brought or kindled back to life. So they grew quiet, walking in the midst of the haunted woods, two figures from mountains and glaciers, surrounded by glens and ghosts. They were stronger for it, all of it, the particles and pieces that had torn them apart and then rendered them whole again. He wanted the summits back in his clutches and the ice between his fingers, the rime beneath his feet, the rising sun polished over foothills and valleys; but they’d find their place too, here, somehow; too mighty, too potent, too prolific and powerful to be kept at bay, to be harnessed, to be tethered to all these damned fault lines and hollowed holes they’d fell within. It was motivation, to see past the trees, to see the past the borders, to wander into the midst of other worlds and grab hold of peaks, where the rapacious fringes enlightened more than just fate, more than just destiny, emblazoning fortitude, contortions, and prowess. As he looked back at her – as she voiced the single statement, his features lost all sense of composure and nonchalance. He was bewildered for a second, confused, addled, rattled, no one’s favorite because of the life he had led, because of the people he had commanded, because of the ways he’d demanded, a sword on the throne. The piercing slate of his eyes watched her for a few more intervals, inhaling sharply, exhaling slowly, uncertain how to respond or if she spoke the truth, if he had just been a rock, a piece of stone, in her life, immovable and rigid, staunch and stalwart, giving everything until he had nothing left, until he crumbled. Instead of saying anything at all, his eyes fell to the ground, head heavy, shoulders bearing an insurmountable weight again as the future rendered and riveted its vices. “We are going back down to the Spire again,” he announced, sullen granules, nothing like the earlier, lighter sentiments, or days spent in winter’s abyss. Only then did his gaze slide back to her, an expression softened with the burdens, with the wraiths, with the phantoms, a sigh ensnared into the fold, into the possibilities, the tangents, the audacity. “If I do not return, can you look after Amalia?” Out of sight and out of mind Make everything alright So let the sky and sea collide Just not in our lifetime