Before the storm

D e i m o s

Send a heartbeat to the void that cries through you
Relive the pictures that have come to pass

Whatever the Sword had been expecting, this wasn’t it. Memories of before were bitter, rancorous echoes; plans and machinations dissolving quickly, swiftly, on bouts of anger, vehemence, and vitriol, their tempestuous grounds littered with more mercurial tides. Were he a better individual he may not have prolonged or instigated the jabs, somewhere in between he could take credit for his provocations, his words had been sharpened, daggers and knives, and then the Sage had taken it upon himself to open up far more lacerations and wounds. Whether nor not he’d deserved the marks upon his soul may not have mattered, they’d been placed there regardless, pulsing and persisting well after Jigano’s departure. Because Deimos had always been aware of his flaws, of his defects, of all the virtues he soundly lacked, but to hear he lacked strength, bravery, or valor, had dug in deep. While he might not have shown ever repeated the insinuations, they still lingered every now and again. You will be better; a haunting, looming force behind his eyes, pushing him far more forward than the ghosts of the Reaper’s blade. He didn’t deserve Jigano’s bows, and was about to say as much, but then the apologies swarmed and he was left with a slight bewilderment, head tilted, ears and skull reverberating the refrains again, as if he’d heard wrong. While he had acted much in the same way they had before blights, before pestilence, before tyrannical Queens and minutemen Kings, the bard had remained standoffish and aloof towards him, a cautious, maintained distance. So Deimos had simply believed it would stay that way – like everything else that he’d permitted to flicker apart and away from him. Cold and stark and desolate; habitual, routine, and normal, until coming here. So now what? What was the purpose of making amends? The monolith’s eyes narrowed, speculative, uncertain of where to go from here. He wasn’t one that received apologies. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had actually regretted shifting him out of their lives. Who bothered to regard stones and boulders, crags and mountains, presuming they would remain steadfast and sure, a certainty, until the very end? His breath was low, lingering, a puff of warm air while he mulled over the situation. Return the favor? Perhaps he wasn’t used to expressing means of forgiveness either; he’d cut and brutalized enough, but rarely had anyone to roam back to and offer, ask, for pardons. “Accepted.” He said instead of all the other things he could’ve maligned, could’ve reached down into the pits of anger and rage and contempt, once resting there for what felt like an eternity – but that wasn’t becoming better. That was just yielding to his arcane, primordial whims, and it wouldn’t truly solve anything. So his tones were deep and obliging, no ivories clenched, no teeth grinding. “I apologize for insinuating you were useless.” For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate