no solace in idle conviction

D e i m o s

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

At the first inclination of the fire reflecting in his eyes, all he could fathom was Ignatius, the FireSword, the name tucked at the end of his first, a title pressed in memories and exuberance, flames he enamored, a presence he admired, wanted to be like while he drifted on sandy shores. It hurt in a way that he couldn’t quite explain, uncertain if this was some genetic, inherited trait suddenly unfurling due to the abhorrence and restlessness contorted in his presence, or just growth, an extension of all the other magic combined in these parallel sources. He swallowed down the bile, the ache, throat contracting over the emotions and sentiments, fingers closing over his fist, waiting to feel the embers licking at his skin. But they didn’t burn, didn’t tarnish, didn’t relish his might; and when he unraveled his fingers again, it still seared, like a pleasant hum, like a relic of his father, like a symbol of his heritage twisting and turning through shoulders and lungs. He could’ve tasted ash and embers, coal and dust, and might have asked the gods had they been anywhere in the guild hall, but there was no mercy or answers here, not in the lines of darkness or the searing tone of his newfound power. Another’s voice stole him from the inferno, eyes darting upwards almost in surprise, incapable of rendering his routine reticence in time, before puncturing and piercing upon Jigano – still bloodied, still brutalized, still traced over from moments spent between doors and fragments. He said naught at first, just billowed one harsh breath, a sharp, weighted sigh, before his stare riveted to Zuriel. Their connection permitted a solitary moment of defiance, and then she rose from her position by the heart, every inch the smug, obstinate beacon, and didn’t deign to dip her crown, her head to the bard, but rather inclined the barest touch of her horn, allowed the healing void to spread. Then he could address the other factions. “Perhaps,” was all he could say at first, kindling further flame simply on a hunch, on a whim, the fire bunching and coiling and then extending it upright, majestic in its ascension. “How do we keep acquiring these things?” It was question for the ether – for the Sage, for anyone who thought they had a damned clue. For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate