DEIMOS
In the grand scheme of things, did anything they tried ever really matter?It was a frustrating nuance, a noose, slipping down over his neck again, scraping away at his throat, at his breathing, until he can only feel it tightening over his chest; a war against ineptitude, ignorance, and everything else in between. Kiada has the blight, just like Ronin, just like any other scorched, scarred inhabitant, and it scathed and seethed, rapacious and tormenting, down the edges of his soul. The destruction of the plants had done nothing – it hadn’t bought them time, it hadn’t bought them mercy, it hadn’t bought them one damned thing except another dead end, a wasted avenue, while the rest of the earth kept burning at both ends. And in the time it took to ravage poison and believe they’d been successful, the world ensured they’d been doomed to fail.
It was maddening, maddening, maddening.
The cold malevolence, the chilling bitterness, the rancorous knives, smoldered beneath his skin and bones. His jaw clenched, and his eyes drifted down, listening to Amalia, listening to Kiada, frustration and ire gnawing at his marrow. What were they supposed to do? He had nothing to slay, nothing to devastate, nothing to ruin anymore – just Kiada, firebrand consumed by sickness, and them utterly incapable of doing anything about it.
When had he become so helpless? So useless? Or had it always been that way, and he’d just never truly realized it until now, when it smacked him in the face and he had naught to contribute, naught to do but warp his mind back to machinations already churned over and spit out.
But even in the midst of complete ineptitude and ineffectualness, he was still determined.
Because she wouldn’t die. Because he wasn’t going to lose her again. Because that was what they did – twisted and turned and still found a way.
Didn’t want you to worry - too late now - trembling, mood swings, tired and cold, his machinations cataloguing the symptoms, knowing full well they wouldn’t really give them much clarity but time. He just didn’t comprehend what to do or where to go, if they’d missed a clue, some foundation, some fortification, they hadn’t roamed over. Should they return to the Spire? Was the source even in there? And if it was – what were they do with the knowledge? They’d believed the venomous vegetation to be the source, and it’d only led to broken roads and feral ends.
The beast wanted to tell her she was strong, that she’d win, that she’d conquer – because in some way she always had, and this was just one more perilous trial and tribulation they’d found themselves traversing down. His eyes drifted downwards, then over to Amalia – uncertain of where to go, how to proceed, his offerings so minimal, so pathetic, so empty, so worthless. “You have nothing to apologize for,” he murmured, voice strong and enduring while the rest of him fought off an anguish longing to fester, to return, to conquer. Instead of burrowing down into the bleak deviations, he attempted to remain above the surface, swallowing the bile, the depravity, the wild, unholy beasts coming to claim him again. “So what else can we do? What do we know?”
He was something solid
to lean against
violent and fierce and unmoving
