you aren't afraid of throwing yourself
in the path of danger
He swallowed and waited for some harpooning mechanism to be lanced and lacerated at his skin, would’ve welcomed it, a blistering, corporeal, and tangible source for his self-torture. Why didn’t you save her? could’ve slashed against him. Why couldn’t you do anything? might’ve seethed and tormented, a noose around his throat, pulled against his flesh and bone when he was incapable of resisting. Why are you so useless? an echo, a resounding, pounding measure against his skull, beating an onslaught of inflicted jeers and provocations, entangling in their brooding fixtures, chiseled into his soul again and again and again.
Instead, there was only a soft inquiry, and he bowed his head away from her, utterly incapable of staring her in the face when she didn’t berate him in contempt, in wrath, in derision. “Last I saw her,” which had been when they were planting roses at the Spire, a zealous, fervent modicum of chaos and destruction amongst protection and guarding. “She had been very angry.” Attacking Remi of all people in manticore decree, a behemoth amongst the masses; the Harpy had clearly lost her sense, and he didn’t know if it was a cause of the blight twisting and turning in her veins, blackened and Stygian, or something else altogether. His calloused palms rested along the dirt, then dug further, using it as a distraction, a means to an end, while the world burned against them all. He didn’t know the exact timing of her illness, where it started or began – they’d been busy in the Spire, trying not to die, trying to rid the realm of poisonous toxins they believed led directly to the pestilence’s spread – useless, ineffectual, even when they’d been successful in their malice, in their ploys and plots. “Around the Cloisters, I believe.” When he and Amalia had gone to her house, the air of success drifting amongst them, and stepped into the domicile to find the denizens of triumph fading, decimated, in a matter of moments. She’d lacked her fire. She’d lacked her vitriol. She’d lacked anything of her normal self – the flames churned to embers, ashes, and cinders.
Instead, there was only a soft inquiry, and he bowed his head away from her, utterly incapable of staring her in the face when she didn’t berate him in contempt, in wrath, in derision. “Last I saw her,” which had been when they were planting roses at the Spire, a zealous, fervent modicum of chaos and destruction amongst protection and guarding. “She had been very angry.” Attacking Remi of all people in manticore decree, a behemoth amongst the masses; the Harpy had clearly lost her sense, and he didn’t know if it was a cause of the blight twisting and turning in her veins, blackened and Stygian, or something else altogether. His calloused palms rested along the dirt, then dug further, using it as a distraction, a means to an end, while the world burned against them all. He didn’t know the exact timing of her illness, where it started or began – they’d been busy in the Spire, trying not to die, trying to rid the realm of poisonous toxins they believed led directly to the pestilence’s spread – useless, ineffectual, even when they’d been successful in their malice, in their ploys and plots. “Around the Cloisters, I believe.” When he and Amalia had gone to her house, the air of success drifting amongst them, and stepped into the domicile to find the denizens of triumph fading, decimated, in a matter of moments. She’d lacked her fire. She’d lacked her vitriol. She’d lacked anything of her normal self – the flames churned to embers, ashes, and cinders.
but you're terrified of
letting anyone in
letting anyone in
DEIMOS
