not heroes any longer - we are tragedies of firelight and flesh
unholy sacraments of blood and broken bodies
Deimos expected an argument, a bristling flame, a way to coax her out of despair, like they’d done amongst the Whispershore, damned and blighted, scorched and assaulted, broken, whittled things, strings snapping, tethers fraying, hollowed, carved out nuances and notions leaving them open for the slaughter. But she’d gone quiet, and his jaw clenched, the uncertainty plaguing him now, now, now, a certain sense of desperation grating over his insides. But he couldn’t do anything – nothing at all – she hadn’t asked him to come, and he’d suited her up in armor and weaponry, begging, hoping, for some semblance of salvation in those Stygian grounds and infernal pursuits, that somewhere along the line her hopes wouldn’t be dashed and her body wouldn’t be torn apart. Instead, it seemed to be her heart, and he had no means to mend it, nor did Zuriel. Frazzled and worn, they all seemed to be on the brink of their own self-destruction, and LongNight waited for them with beckoning claws and haughty laughter, fiends and demons with their feet already in the door.
He released her to the floor, allowed her to settle on the cold, hardwood semblance, grounded in reality, in the shape of her circumstances, of what she’d overcome and what would follow. His arms were empty and ineffectual then, placed down along his sides as she molded into the quiet, as she seemed to retreat into herself, as the agony ripped and tore and he had no salve, no balm, to make it any better. What had he ever done with heartbreak, with loss, with ruin? Threatened to obliterate? Consigned himself to oblivion? Hoped he was next? It’d been like eternities, varnished in the enamel of death after death after death, demise, stifling down on his chest, barreling through his senses, never being quite enough to save anyone, to become anything other than a harbinger, a Reaper. He’d run himself straight into the ground and wondered how long it would take until he became dust, ash, and soil, if he would return to the earth with blood staining the ground, if he would ever see any of those gone again.
Then he was here. Then there was Rexanna, Kiada, Amalia, Hotaru, more and more and more who wouldn’t allow him to flicker off into tiny embers or quieted coal. Who incensed and stoked, instead of pushing him further into craters, into holes, into sepulchers and catacombs. How could he do the same for her?
Zuriel marched forward, further and further, until the girl was enfolded in soft, velvetine maws and glowing horns, bristling blue highlighted back and forth between Sword and unicorn. He listened while the mare healed, while she did far more than he ever could, while Kiada seemed to march straight into the same whims, the same measures, the same ridiculous journey she’d taken before. His eyes took in the grime, the blood, the same things stuck to his clothes, a proclamation on his lips as soon as she’d spoken of the upgrades. “No more monsters. We have had enough.” It'd be raising another demon, another ministration of the Spire or spiraling mayhem, those false paragons just given new names, new faces, new fixtures; he shook his head, furrowed his brows, chiseled the granules back into the fray. “So we find another way.” Fiends could be slain.
He released her to the floor, allowed her to settle on the cold, hardwood semblance, grounded in reality, in the shape of her circumstances, of what she’d overcome and what would follow. His arms were empty and ineffectual then, placed down along his sides as she molded into the quiet, as she seemed to retreat into herself, as the agony ripped and tore and he had no salve, no balm, to make it any better. What had he ever done with heartbreak, with loss, with ruin? Threatened to obliterate? Consigned himself to oblivion? Hoped he was next? It’d been like eternities, varnished in the enamel of death after death after death, demise, stifling down on his chest, barreling through his senses, never being quite enough to save anyone, to become anything other than a harbinger, a Reaper. He’d run himself straight into the ground and wondered how long it would take until he became dust, ash, and soil, if he would return to the earth with blood staining the ground, if he would ever see any of those gone again.
Then he was here. Then there was Rexanna, Kiada, Amalia, Hotaru, more and more and more who wouldn’t allow him to flicker off into tiny embers or quieted coal. Who incensed and stoked, instead of pushing him further into craters, into holes, into sepulchers and catacombs. How could he do the same for her?
Zuriel marched forward, further and further, until the girl was enfolded in soft, velvetine maws and glowing horns, bristling blue highlighted back and forth between Sword and unicorn. He listened while the mare healed, while she did far more than he ever could, while Kiada seemed to march straight into the same whims, the same measures, the same ridiculous journey she’d taken before. His eyes took in the grime, the blood, the same things stuck to his clothes, a proclamation on his lips as soon as she’d spoken of the upgrades. “No more monsters. We have had enough.” It'd be raising another demon, another ministration of the Spire or spiraling mayhem, those false paragons just given new names, new faces, new fixtures; he shook his head, furrowed his brows, chiseled the granules back into the fray. “So we find another way.” Fiends could be slain.
what use have we for feeble hymns of wasted faith;
for sordid songs of glory?
DEIMOS
