we're all killers
Lifetimes ago all he’d ever wanted to do was fight, rebel, raise his hackles, and shove raptorial predilection into the forefront of the earth. He resisted, he pummeled, he devastated, and he destroyed, and for some seasons, it was fine, it was expected: to torment, to tear and rip apart the world with his bare hands, to be the soldier, to be the warrior, to be the blistering, barbaric adversary, the guardian in front of the gates. It’d been harpooning measures and death marches, enigmatic knells crawling across grounds, choking, drowning, mutilating; and it’d been glorious. It was all he’d been, pieces of armor, suffocating on his own smoke and ash, on his own vitriol and vehemence, lost when everything fell apart, when he had to pick up shards and fragments after loss, after loss, after loss. When he sat upon a throne he was just as shattered, just as broken, just as barbaric and untethered, the savage with his scepter, an embodiment of winter and the chill coursing through their veins. He represented might and strength, but not much else; and she’d been capable, she’d been enduring, she’d been strong and far more than he could ever be.
They’d needed one another, and for a time, the plotting, the musing, the mulling, the forethoughts, the forays into peace had worked.
Now they were altered, chiseled, reformed, sculpted and molded with the same figures, the same forms – cultivated within different embodiments, from the suffering, from the glories, they’d encountered again and again. Still mighty. Still stalwart. Still capable of finding one another. Still hidden. Still rooted. Still striving to find their places.
But he allowed them to see portions of him – ones once so precariously out of view, out of range, unattainable, unreachable, the blistering beacon at the top of the peak, glowering down at everyone and everything and just wanting to be left alone. These days, he stood at sides, instead of behind, or in front, joined them in their determinations, in their ambitions, in their aspirations.
She wanted to fight for what was right - but what was that anymore? To cease the spread of the blight? To ensure Zariah didn’t reclaim her power? Or something else, something more, that they were all unaware of? “Which one do you intend to pick?” He tilted his head, a smirk to match her fangs, admiring her resilience, her tenacity, her will; sometimes the only reason they managed to exist.
They’d needed one another, and for a time, the plotting, the musing, the mulling, the forethoughts, the forays into peace had worked.
Now they were altered, chiseled, reformed, sculpted and molded with the same figures, the same forms – cultivated within different embodiments, from the suffering, from the glories, they’d encountered again and again. Still mighty. Still stalwart. Still capable of finding one another. Still hidden. Still rooted. Still striving to find their places.
But he allowed them to see portions of him – ones once so precariously out of view, out of range, unattainable, unreachable, the blistering beacon at the top of the peak, glowering down at everyone and everything and just wanting to be left alone. These days, he stood at sides, instead of behind, or in front, joined them in their determinations, in their ambitions, in their aspirations.
She wanted to fight for what was right - but what was that anymore? To cease the spread of the blight? To ensure Zariah didn’t reclaim her power? Or something else, something more, that they were all unaware of? “Which one do you intend to pick?” He tilted his head, a smirk to match her fangs, admiring her resilience, her tenacity, her will; sometimes the only reason they managed to exist.
DEIMOS
