not heroes any longer - we are tragedies of firelight and flesh
unholy sacraments of blood and broken bodies
He could take her bristling. He could take her shouts, her wails, her cries. He was a fortress, a fortification, once a king and now naught more than humanized weaponry; staring her down as her tone rose and rose and he didn’t flicker, didn’t falter, didn’t begrudge her with vitriol or vehemence. “There are always options.” The tones were calm, composed, as he crouched down to join her near the floor, near the hardwood expanse with all their entangled, mercurial whims, the tempestuous fringes racing and skimming across his skin. “Monsters can be slain.” Devastation could be ravaged. Ruin could be achieved. Sometimes it took calculating airs, moments of clarity, stepping back and settling away from the darker plumes, from the voracious, fervent exploits, to see beyond those mortal, immoral trappings. If it took longer, if it took decades, if it took ages, then so be it – but he had no doubt that she’d see it through.
But the Harpy had never been one for patience, for dedication to plotting out stratagems and duplicitous, devious armaments; he appreciated her fire, her venom, her ruthlessness, but crashing and burning into the midst wouldn’t do them any good. So he merely stared at her, watched her fade, watched her diminish, reaching forward for her again if she’d let him, arms open and wide, as she attempted to flee into the background.
Her next set of phrasing, an exchange of lives, a brutal manifestation, a barbaric wake, contorted against him enough for his eyes to narrow into sharper slits, dangerous, malevolent territory, jaw clenching, treading in amongst the muck and mire. And he rustled on ahead, driving his onslaught through the melancholy, through the ire, through the ill-achieved means, a deep rumble to his throat, etchings and sketchings of the Reaper piercing through any Sword tangibility. “Then what would have been the point?” For her to simply sacrifice her soul, out into the darkness, out into the void, with nothing and no one? Would Ru’in have returned to her side then, and they could live in eternal purgatory? He might’ve once been the same, headed straight for consignments to oblivion, to stretch his presence into diminished, irreverent, seditious shapes, to wait for the agony to merely end, to be with the rain and every other storm that had blasted against him. “Do you believe he would have wanted that?” Too much now, too much to live for, too much to protect, too much to cherish – or maybe it was meaningless without him, for her, for the firebrand, embers cooling beneath the wake of misery.
But the Harpy had never been one for patience, for dedication to plotting out stratagems and duplicitous, devious armaments; he appreciated her fire, her venom, her ruthlessness, but crashing and burning into the midst wouldn’t do them any good. So he merely stared at her, watched her fade, watched her diminish, reaching forward for her again if she’d let him, arms open and wide, as she attempted to flee into the background.
Her next set of phrasing, an exchange of lives, a brutal manifestation, a barbaric wake, contorted against him enough for his eyes to narrow into sharper slits, dangerous, malevolent territory, jaw clenching, treading in amongst the muck and mire. And he rustled on ahead, driving his onslaught through the melancholy, through the ire, through the ill-achieved means, a deep rumble to his throat, etchings and sketchings of the Reaper piercing through any Sword tangibility. “Then what would have been the point?” For her to simply sacrifice her soul, out into the darkness, out into the void, with nothing and no one? Would Ru’in have returned to her side then, and they could live in eternal purgatory? He might’ve once been the same, headed straight for consignments to oblivion, to stretch his presence into diminished, irreverent, seditious shapes, to wait for the agony to merely end, to be with the rain and every other storm that had blasted against him. “Do you believe he would have wanted that?” Too much now, too much to live for, too much to protect, too much to cherish – or maybe it was meaningless without him, for her, for the firebrand, embers cooling beneath the wake of misery.
what use have we for feeble hymns of wasted faith;
for sordid songs of glory?
DEIMOS
