we're all killers
He was grateful, for each and every one of them, the ones who accepted, who tolerated, who knew what he was and still seemed to, somehow, cherish him for it. He knew and understood what he was: feral, barbaric, twisted, coiled, a seditious pledge in a room full of vows, a blade waiting to strike, sometimes silent, sometimes forlorn, always guarded. But in the same interval, he would also do anything for them, an art to self-sacrifice, putting their burdens on his shoulders because his were durable, his were strong, his were mighty, laden and laden and laden more, shifting, turning, striking at things that haunted and threatened. It was a pattern, a ritual, a scheme for the masses, striving to ensure those he devoted himself too were safe, were protected; and it wasn’t easy in this world, where demons thrived and the unknown gaped, loomed, haunted over them. He’d fight for them until the breath faded from his lungs, until his heart ceased to beat, until the last munition and machination slid from his mind; perilous and treacherous, but not to them.
He’d done it before. Hadn’t he been brought back to serve the same purpose?
Had Rexanna been brought back to serve as another thief, duplicitous and ensnaring, capable of driving onslaught after onslaught with words and nuances, with glances and advances?
Were they meant for more?
Her words caused him to raise his head, a sly glance over the aches and uncertainty in his figure. The warrior hid behind it, because he wasn’t sure if they would, but trying was so much better than merely existing, rummaging behind his brooding contortions, his brewing death knells, the corridors that haunted and the bleak ministrations behind their goals. If they didn’t succeed – what then? Would Ronin die (again)? Would the blight continue to spread? He sighed, staring back at his friend from the past, at his friend in the present, and wondering if everything would be for naught all over again – if they were damned right from the start.
If he would defy it all.
“Likewise,” he murmured. Then, because he was curious, because he was inquisitive, because he’d rather not waste the evening, he pried a little. “What are your plans now?” With her Ascension, with everything else flickering down around them, with the nuances and sentiments unraveling, an evasion made; or was it up in the air, laden as she went along?
At her last request, a conviction, a promise, he snorted again. If I make it out didn’t rumble from his mouth, didn’t fester on his lips, but it still pressed along the back of his mind. “Of course,” bound its way out of the tension, wrapped in the tiniest of smirks.
He’d done it before. Hadn’t he been brought back to serve the same purpose?
Had Rexanna been brought back to serve as another thief, duplicitous and ensnaring, capable of driving onslaught after onslaught with words and nuances, with glances and advances?
Were they meant for more?
Her words caused him to raise his head, a sly glance over the aches and uncertainty in his figure. The warrior hid behind it, because he wasn’t sure if they would, but trying was so much better than merely existing, rummaging behind his brooding contortions, his brewing death knells, the corridors that haunted and the bleak ministrations behind their goals. If they didn’t succeed – what then? Would Ronin die (again)? Would the blight continue to spread? He sighed, staring back at his friend from the past, at his friend in the present, and wondering if everything would be for naught all over again – if they were damned right from the start.
If he would defy it all.
“Likewise,” he murmured. Then, because he was curious, because he was inquisitive, because he’d rather not waste the evening, he pried a little. “What are your plans now?” With her Ascension, with everything else flickering down around them, with the nuances and sentiments unraveling, an evasion made; or was it up in the air, laden as she went along?
At her last request, a conviction, a promise, he snorted again. If I make it out didn’t rumble from his mouth, didn’t fester on his lips, but it still pressed along the back of his mind. “Of course,” bound its way out of the tension, wrapped in the tiniest of smirks.
DEIMOS
