DEIMOS
There was familiarity to succumbing to pain amongst the ice; a home, a shelter, a sanctum in its embittered glory and anguish, the side, the spin of despair, a despondent outset crawling, slithering, out of snow and ash. Their rancorous edges were cast in feathers and long-lost fury now, drenched in the outset of the cold, the chill, the madness; and he simply stood there, ineffectual paragon of protection, who could nothing at all. She burrowed into the powder and his talons clutched into its soul, longing for days that weren’t so tired, that weren’t so scarce, that weren’t so desperate and destitute, his eyes containing ghosts, maneuvering away from her to glance at the night, at the evening spoils, at the damnation sparking and sizzling around them. Then he hung his head, not upright, glancing down at ridges and lines, at the stalk in his grasp, at the riddling of thorns, at safety being an immeasurable designation. The Sword caught her slightest movement, away from him, and the shame clutched at his chest, a far deeper wound than the ones he already bore; a restless sigh clinging through his lungs, exhaling the void, the abyss, aching for it to leave, to depart – But her words wrapped around his skull and perhaps they hurt more. I didn’t mean any of it coiled throughout his soul, but there were no apologies, no regrets; and Deimos understood he earned this semblance of hatred and vitriol from the very beginning, simply because he’d left out monumental moments, because he’d thought about protection over her fire, her fuel, her invocations, because somewhere along the way he’d strangled her plans, her motivations, without ever realizing it.
Did he become angry, enraged, and ferocious when they left him? Did he snap and assault? Siege and unravel?
No – but his disappointment, his silence, had always spoken far more volumes.
The thought spiraled, his eyes narrowing into the rime – not her fault, not her mother’s, just age-old, primordial beckons of scythes and claws, lacerations that never truly closed. I did not try to keep it from you, pervaded along their connection, attuned elements and shards of things he thought would always be there – but he’d been too stupid, too daft, too ineffectual, constantly along the lines of ignorance. His alterations hadn’t been a secret – poor timing at best, a day before everything clustered into one giant mess, and there’d been roses to plant, to save, and people beloved to try and proffer deliverance. She’d been too far gone to have ever heard his excitement or pride. He would’ve been damned no matter which option he took – and out of habit, out of routine, he simply said nothing at all.
Then she told him to depart, and too tenacious, too obstinate, too defiant, too irreverent in the shade of power and condemnation, he remained. Would she try and mark him again? What was one more wound? One more blow?
He didn’t leave, because it was all anyone had ever done to him.
"who's gonna let you?"
they asked. i said
"who's gonna stop me?"
