DEIMOS
It was over – in a strange, bewildering way – but not at the same instant. They faced the inevitable again, the rose’s thorns not a singular cure, the threat of succumbing wits and stumbling forms alive and insistent at the back of his mind. He paid close attention to the way in which they were suddenly immersed into old selves, eyes guarded, reticent, uncertain of when and where to break apart once more. The pain in his chest was particularly grating, a hoof-mark he’d have to ask Zuriel to mend and assuage, the scraping of his talons in the snow just a slow, steady march, wings tucked against his sides as he deliberately, carefully, painstakingly maneuvered forward. It wasn’t fair was a conflagration bending and blending into his mind, but given no voice, no sanctity, no confession in between bonds and connections; it was the way of the earth and the terrain, no matter which kingdom.
He swallowed down whatever cluster of pride, dominion, and anguish spread along his essence, the thorns still clutched in his talons, Kiada’s stare riveted on him for a cluster of seconds. He had no explanation to give her, no summoning of words that would do the world any justice, tipping his avian head, listening to Amalia’s proclamations as she clutched and grasped at those that would leave them eventually. What could he extend that would matter? What he could he offer that would effect anything? His heart hurt and his chest bled and he wondered if the world would just swallow and consume them right then and there – the piercing depths of his gaze lingering on things not meant to last; a grating melancholy splitting apart from the rest of their chilling burdens. His actions would have to be enough – silent admonitions, apologies, and strife in the raw, frayed moments, extending a wing onto the Harpy’s shoulder – sorry they hadn’t been enough, not yet, not yet, not yet.
He swallowed down whatever cluster of pride, dominion, and anguish spread along his essence, the thorns still clutched in his talons, Kiada’s stare riveted on him for a cluster of seconds. He had no explanation to give her, no summoning of words that would do the world any justice, tipping his avian head, listening to Amalia’s proclamations as she clutched and grasped at those that would leave them eventually. What could he extend that would matter? What he could he offer that would effect anything? His heart hurt and his chest bled and he wondered if the world would just swallow and consume them right then and there – the piercing depths of his gaze lingering on things not meant to last; a grating melancholy splitting apart from the rest of their chilling burdens. His actions would have to be enough – silent admonitions, apologies, and strife in the raw, frayed moments, extending a wing onto the Harpy’s shoulder – sorry they hadn’t been enough, not yet, not yet, not yet.
gatekeeper of an endless war
where lines between right and wrong
don't exist anymore
