not heroes any longer - we are tragedies of firelight and flesh
unholy sacraments of blood and broken bodies
The Harpy could believe what she wished and craved, and it wouldn’t alter his opinion any. Steadfast and obstinate in such a regard, tenaciously clinging to the verdict and conviction in his heart and frame, he merely listened to her finally grumble a concession, for she wouldn’t hear any different statement or appeal from his mouth. It was fact and veracity, etched and sketched in the brusque depths of his thoughts, refusing to fold or bend as she did the very same in his arms. While she buries herself in the confines of his chest, something few were ever permitted, he extended his reach, rising up from his crouch, bringing her up with him. “We will figure something out.” Which also carried a dominating weight along his teeth; they would, along with the hundreds of other things spiraling around them, never quite clear, murky and drawn and haphazard sometimes at best; but at the very least time was on their side for this current account. They had next year. They had seasons and cycles. And all the while, she could, would, grow stronger, and they might find some alternative means and routes to partake. She could bring a score of them along. She could be menacing and supreme. She could be anything she craved; for better or for worse. It was a promise too, of his support, of his strength, of his constant stalwart accord and fortifications – those would never cease either, as long as he remained on this damned earth.
what use have we for feeble hymns of wasted faith;
for sordid songs of glory?
DEIMOS
