DEIMOS & KIADA
your name will be known
a promise, a dare
The mountains were something to hope for, out of the darkness, out of the pestilence, out of the blighted means they’ve exposed themselves too. It was a notion eclipsing and outweighing the integral stiletto, staccato ramparts of the longest nights, because beyond those overbearing shards, nettles, thorns, and barbarity, were summits, were valleys, were pockets of moments they once had. Not the same, no, because they couldn’t be the Basin, couldn’t be the auroras, couldn’t be the dual monoliths, but it was better, far better, than this, shirking and lurking in the threads of the demonic. And it spurred him on, unraveled all those greedy, rapacious edges again, called and clamored for them to take, to unfurl, to unleash, to have the mountains for themselves. It was as close to hope as he’d allowed himself – more faith in their convictions, in their abilities, in their emboldened barbarity and obstinance. “Could they stop us?” He whispered, the slightest grin on his face, the barbaric twist and turn usually buried underneath suddenly hastening just below the surface, because no, he would blast his way just as the Reaper had before him, teeth bared and sword in hand.
The last time he’d entered the Fae village had been to collect Amalia, Kiada, and anyone else associated and tossed into the pit. Delah had been with them during one of the Spire onslaughts; otherwise, he left well enough alone, didn’t bother to rankle, to raise any ire. Perhaps they wouldn’t need to. Perhaps it wouldn’t matter. Perhaps they had to wait and see – when the veils and shrouds were pulled back, on their race to the Mathair’s remains. Hotaru’s reaction was what he wanted, savoring the relish, the notions, the spark towards more revolution – casting rebellion where it could instigate and burn.
The last time he’d entered the Fae village had been to collect Amalia, Kiada, and anyone else associated and tossed into the pit. Delah had been with them during one of the Spire onslaughts; otherwise, he left well enough alone, didn’t bother to rankle, to raise any ire. Perhaps they wouldn’t need to. Perhaps it wouldn’t matter. Perhaps they had to wait and see – when the veils and shrouds were pulled back, on their race to the Mathair’s remains. Hotaru’s reaction was what he wanted, savoring the relish, the notions, the spark towards more revolution – casting rebellion where it could instigate and burn.
they'll speak of my name,
of my battles and wars
but here's the thing,
what's my name without yours?
