DEIMOS
He wondered, briefly, in the weighted mass of all their broken, bent things, if the blight merely gave them an edge to say what they truly felt. If, in its destruction, in the height of its dominion, it scalded and peeled back the layers of emotions trapping everything else: allowed them to sputter, permitted them to ignite. Even if she knew his silence had just been another portion of his stoic, reticent enterprise, if days on this earth had done him well and good but he couldn’t erase those moments of absolute silence, never revealing too much of himself, seditious in his surrender of layers and lacquer, it still seemed to matter. It still seemed to shatter. It still remained there, poised and aloft, and his avian head tilted, his talons inclined forward, his back seethed with the tormented movement; pondering if she wanted to know the tale or if it would even muster a notion, a fathom now. If it was too late. If the pestilence and poison seeping through her lungs, her bones, her skin, had done more than just ignite and unfurl, but divide too, and she, like so many before her, merely wanted nothing to do with him. He understood. He always understood. The monster had seen them go, disappear into smoke, into mist, into bands of snow. The Reaper hadn’t called them back. Just tucked himself further and further away from any moral, mortal ground, stamping down the masses with iron, with blood, with knives and twisted, gnarled fathoms; as much the demon they’d believed him to be.
Deimos inched closer. You have never been helpless, he tried, he strived, he dared to impart, eyes on her sunken shell, on the remnants of the Harpy; of the things they’d tried so hard to put back together again, and how the earth managed to rip them into pieces, into portions. It was as if they’d been deigned and designated to unravel despite power, despite bonds, despite devotion and convictions. Of all those suffering, blighted, he’d never thought of her to be so consumed – eternally strong, a firebrand, capable of unfurling even the most ferocious of savages. Perhaps he’d underestimated everyone and everything. Maybe he was a fool, to constantly believe in others, to dare to crawl and slither out of his shadows, out of his hollowed shell. Life had been easier (sadder, lonelier, forsaken, desperately abandoned) when he was alone. When no one cared. When no one gave a damn.
Kiada’s apology curled in their bond, and he stared at it, at its saddened, despondent, cumbersome molecules, at its sighs, at its gnarled indications. Why couldn’t they stop this? What had caused the suffering? Why was it so prolonged? A thousand theories spiraled and none of them amounted to anything. A gruff intonation rumbled through him, frustration and ire and desperation too, a command, a demand, not harsh, but there, yesteryears blending, blurring in his mind. Get up.
"who's gonna let you?"
they asked. i said
"who's gonna stop me?"
