you aren't afraid of throwing yourself
in the path of danger
The world was eerily quiet, a pressing distinction, his senses adhering to the twilight gloom sifting and settling over brambles and bereft boughs; eyes seeking and watching as far as they could in the lack of light. The passing of their voices was the only thing threading through his ears, but it didn’t signify that nothing else was out there – they’d already been tracked twice before, by those afflicted and diseased.
Did Rexanna know her daughter was amongst the affected?
He held his tongue and pondered if he should say anything, if he’d pressed and rocked conditions too many times before, and the end results hadn’t been clear either. The world was murky at best, and he felt like he was either crossing lines by withholding information, or circumventing an inferno, playing with fire at both ends of a torch. Would he be blamed (because he did, in a way, configure guilt upon himself) for her tarred remnants, for her diseased status – that he couldn’t prevent it, that he couldn’t alleviate it? Perhaps he should’ve been marred, ruined, and bludgeoned, detested and abhorred. It would’ve felt normal. They’d tried. It hadn’t mattered. Not in the slightest.
The notion coiled down his throat and made it a noose, kept his hands busy with gloves, thorns, and petals as he struggled with what to articulate. “We destroyed the poisonous plants in the Spire. But it did nothing.” As she might’ve guessed on her own, as those with the illness ran rampant along plains and fields, tearing worlds apart well before the real monsters came into winter’s end. “Kiada has the blight,” came along on a sigh, cold and stark and desolate, his eyes riveting to hers from across roots and makeshift forts. “I am sorry.” That I couldn’t prevent anything. That I couldn’t do anything. And after dropping that declaration, it didn’t seem right to show his own alterations and changes; not worthy in the range of disaster and mayhem.
Did Rexanna know her daughter was amongst the affected?
He held his tongue and pondered if he should say anything, if he’d pressed and rocked conditions too many times before, and the end results hadn’t been clear either. The world was murky at best, and he felt like he was either crossing lines by withholding information, or circumventing an inferno, playing with fire at both ends of a torch. Would he be blamed (because he did, in a way, configure guilt upon himself) for her tarred remnants, for her diseased status – that he couldn’t prevent it, that he couldn’t alleviate it? Perhaps he should’ve been marred, ruined, and bludgeoned, detested and abhorred. It would’ve felt normal. They’d tried. It hadn’t mattered. Not in the slightest.
The notion coiled down his throat and made it a noose, kept his hands busy with gloves, thorns, and petals as he struggled with what to articulate. “We destroyed the poisonous plants in the Spire. But it did nothing.” As she might’ve guessed on her own, as those with the illness ran rampant along plains and fields, tearing worlds apart well before the real monsters came into winter’s end. “Kiada has the blight,” came along on a sigh, cold and stark and desolate, his eyes riveting to hers from across roots and makeshift forts. “I am sorry.” That I couldn’t prevent anything. That I couldn’t do anything. And after dropping that declaration, it didn’t seem right to show his own alterations and changes; not worthy in the range of disaster and mayhem.
but you're terrified of
letting anyone in
letting anyone in
DEIMOS
