we're all killers
It had become a habit, a routine, to meet new recruits and members at the borders – intimidating King with his icy composition and bold aspirations, with his deadly invocations and savage outlook – to ask them about their talents, the roles they wished to play. Some boasted of their fighting abilities, unsheathed their swords, spoke of their capacity for onslaughts and terror. Others had warranted their trust and measures into healing, presiding over weakened forms until they were assuaged, soothed, and ready for the fight again. There’d even been a few who had not a clue about their own capabilities, longing for some sort of sign, some hint, some direction, and he’d tried to point them in any, allow them to learn, to prosper and hoist themselves where their curiosity struck. Rexanna had been amongst those who knew exactly what they craved, and he’d surveyed her, then granted her the opportunity to move forward.
She’d done it – placed herself in shadows, between cloaks and daggers, haunted and lingered, poignant smiles tracing over foundations and figures, snagging and igniting them with information. He’d been grateful, he’d been honored, he’d been content. So he’d guarded her when she required it, so he’d aided and abetted and allowed her to grow and seethe. Brothers and sisters and makeshift families in arms, in munitions, in fortifications, fire, and snow – mountains in their blood and bones, peaks in their marrow, summits in their veins; measures incapable of being erased. They were solidified dominions, beneath callous waves and dominating forces, a threat to anyone who stood in their way.
Just as it should've been.
His eyes widened slightly at her proclamation, swallowing down the unease, the tremor in his throat, the burning in the back of his skull. Had he prevailed? Or had he simply mired along in his own ruins, moving forward when there was nowhere else to go? “With every mistake along the way,” he added, a twisted smile indented on the corners of his mouth, a sigh flickering back into the story.
Another failure to recall – the Basin not at its best, bristling and incensed, in the splendor of mania, menace, and malice.
Deimos shook his head. “In some regards. While battles were won, overall, the invasions were a disaster. Despite our efforts, some did not hasten to our commands, or some did not finish their battles. We lost again.” And it had always frustrated him, to understand and know that they’d had a chance, but the opportunities were squandered and squashed by ineptitude, ignorance, and foolishness. He’d taken the mishaps upon himself – shamed and embarrassed and contemptuous. “So, as General, when we returned home, I called several out on their mishaps.” And here was where he wasn’t proud of himself, where foundations and fortifications fell apart and found themselves whittled into something new – and he’d stood aside, watched as shards and shields began to fall. “Two of which were Psyche and Ulrik.” The DarkEmpress, who’d brought them all to the forefront of dominion and supremacy, who ensured they’d risen from the bottom to the top – and the Engineer, whose surly, curt demeanor transposed aloud in hatred and vehemence. “Ulrik chastised Psyche for her efforts, and I stood by, defending neither.” Rexanna would likely comprehend the way he’d become a statue, watching, waiting, surveying, sometimes too late to do anything but become another damned witness, the machinations in place. “When their outrage had settled, Psyche gave her crown to Ulrik.” Out of frustration? Out of upheaval? One last touch of sedition? Maybe the asp had yearned for him to feel the same weight upon his shoulders, all the lingering doubts, all the overbearing stigmas and pitfalls. A sigh flickered through him, the depths of his piercing stare downcast, fingers sketching back over the Basin figurines, moving them back to the designated north. “Then he gave it to me.”
She’d done it – placed herself in shadows, between cloaks and daggers, haunted and lingered, poignant smiles tracing over foundations and figures, snagging and igniting them with information. He’d been grateful, he’d been honored, he’d been content. So he’d guarded her when she required it, so he’d aided and abetted and allowed her to grow and seethe. Brothers and sisters and makeshift families in arms, in munitions, in fortifications, fire, and snow – mountains in their blood and bones, peaks in their marrow, summits in their veins; measures incapable of being erased. They were solidified dominions, beneath callous waves and dominating forces, a threat to anyone who stood in their way.
Just as it should've been.
His eyes widened slightly at her proclamation, swallowing down the unease, the tremor in his throat, the burning in the back of his skull. Had he prevailed? Or had he simply mired along in his own ruins, moving forward when there was nowhere else to go? “With every mistake along the way,” he added, a twisted smile indented on the corners of his mouth, a sigh flickering back into the story.
Another failure to recall – the Basin not at its best, bristling and incensed, in the splendor of mania, menace, and malice.
Deimos shook his head. “In some regards. While battles were won, overall, the invasions were a disaster. Despite our efforts, some did not hasten to our commands, or some did not finish their battles. We lost again.” And it had always frustrated him, to understand and know that they’d had a chance, but the opportunities were squandered and squashed by ineptitude, ignorance, and foolishness. He’d taken the mishaps upon himself – shamed and embarrassed and contemptuous. “So, as General, when we returned home, I called several out on their mishaps.” And here was where he wasn’t proud of himself, where foundations and fortifications fell apart and found themselves whittled into something new – and he’d stood aside, watched as shards and shields began to fall. “Two of which were Psyche and Ulrik.” The DarkEmpress, who’d brought them all to the forefront of dominion and supremacy, who ensured they’d risen from the bottom to the top – and the Engineer, whose surly, curt demeanor transposed aloud in hatred and vehemence. “Ulrik chastised Psyche for her efforts, and I stood by, defending neither.” Rexanna would likely comprehend the way he’d become a statue, watching, waiting, surveying, sometimes too late to do anything but become another damned witness, the machinations in place. “When their outrage had settled, Psyche gave her crown to Ulrik.” Out of frustration? Out of upheaval? One last touch of sedition? Maybe the asp had yearned for him to feel the same weight upon his shoulders, all the lingering doubts, all the overbearing stigmas and pitfalls. A sigh flickered through him, the depths of his piercing stare downcast, fingers sketching back over the Basin figurines, moving them back to the designated north. “Then he gave it to me.”
DEIMOS
