we're all killers
Another unsaid cheer, another vibrant toast – to mountains this time, to glaciers, to walls, to fortresses rising into cliffs and auroras blending into the skyline, drenching and dousing them in colors, in hues, that had once been everything. It was a goal, a long motivation, an aspiring ambition, something to come and chase when blights were no longer slinking, when crusades weren’t so often, when there was more to kingdoms than constant doom and damnation.
She apparently didn’t care for his cause of concern, and he wondered why he ever bothered voicing it at all, if they managed to simply rebuke and rebuff, slide it away, indifferent. Perhaps he should’ve kindled right back into the stoic, detached void, not let them see where his wounds were, where his scars chiseled and sculpted their way through, where the amount of losses still haunted, still grated, still strangled him like a noose. He rolled his eyes at her words, at the wink, the smile flickering away; a retreat, an evasion, a tactic so old, so primordial, so innate to his figure that it was inherent and routine, comfortable in its exposition and range. The heathen’s features were immediately nonchalant, eyes roaming back over to Zuriel as she meandered back to the fire’s blistering hearth, only riveting along Rexanna again when she promised to be careful.
What did that mean anymore? Were any of them ever careful? When they wandered into the Greatwood? When they rampaged after arrest warrants? When they gathered together and dared to rebel?
Maybe he was naïve and stupid, ineffectual and ignorant, to ever believe in the words.
But then she did the same to him, and he arched his brow, before his gaze flickered to his empty glass, to everything else worn and tired and exhausted. His thoughts and trepidations had never been for himself; reaching and scalding into adversaries and how to tear them apart, blistering and torching for others so they had liberation, freedom, and deliverance to instigate, agitate, and wreak havoc, protection and blackguard motivations for when the world seemed damning and doomed. He’d never really thought anyone else would’ve bothered with the notions either – ice king, glacial soldier, moving machine, breathing weapon, a sword connected to an entity and naught more.
Again drummed against his senses. Because he’d died. Because at some point he’d worn himself into a consignment to hell, and the devils had greeted him at the front door, then sent him back out into the world.
For a purpose? For a price?
“I will try,” he smirked and snickered, uncertain if it was a lie, a fabrication, a pretense for her benefit, or if he really would, for once, think about his own hide.
She apparently didn’t care for his cause of concern, and he wondered why he ever bothered voicing it at all, if they managed to simply rebuke and rebuff, slide it away, indifferent. Perhaps he should’ve kindled right back into the stoic, detached void, not let them see where his wounds were, where his scars chiseled and sculpted their way through, where the amount of losses still haunted, still grated, still strangled him like a noose. He rolled his eyes at her words, at the wink, the smile flickering away; a retreat, an evasion, a tactic so old, so primordial, so innate to his figure that it was inherent and routine, comfortable in its exposition and range. The heathen’s features were immediately nonchalant, eyes roaming back over to Zuriel as she meandered back to the fire’s blistering hearth, only riveting along Rexanna again when she promised to be careful.
What did that mean anymore? Were any of them ever careful? When they wandered into the Greatwood? When they rampaged after arrest warrants? When they gathered together and dared to rebel?
Maybe he was naïve and stupid, ineffectual and ignorant, to ever believe in the words.
But then she did the same to him, and he arched his brow, before his gaze flickered to his empty glass, to everything else worn and tired and exhausted. His thoughts and trepidations had never been for himself; reaching and scalding into adversaries and how to tear them apart, blistering and torching for others so they had liberation, freedom, and deliverance to instigate, agitate, and wreak havoc, protection and blackguard motivations for when the world seemed damning and doomed. He’d never really thought anyone else would’ve bothered with the notions either – ice king, glacial soldier, moving machine, breathing weapon, a sword connected to an entity and naught more.
Again drummed against his senses. Because he’d died. Because at some point he’d worn himself into a consignment to hell, and the devils had greeted him at the front door, then sent him back out into the world.
For a purpose? For a price?
“I will try,” he smirked and snickered, uncertain if it was a lie, a fabrication, a pretense for her benefit, or if he really would, for once, think about his own hide.
DEIMOS
