Deimos
Hotaru could pinch, poke, prod, and nettle at his sides, but only get so far; solid and reticent in those ethers and parameters, a particular cheeky set to his grin, desperate to move away, away, away from anything else settling in amongst bones, threatening to ignite. Zuriel lifted her head at Hotaru’s presence, deemed her an unlikely threat, and might’ve given the slightest nod, as if indicating fellow warrior, Amazonian clarity, or mere recognition. His venturing into the kitchen was only immediately followed by an eye roll at her extension of antics, seeking out the very same scones and some semblance of tea, wandering back to find her already ensconced. As he handed over her newfound wares, he merely shook his head, defiant to the last. “Good luck,” a mocking sort of confidence in his relationships and a chance to merely tease further, instigating, misconstruing her capable efforts, piercing gaze landing upon her, a snippet of taunting particles reigning and residing there, before the subjects and antics gave way to LongNight’s supremacy.
Eternally bound into vivid contortions of silence, he listened as she described Kiada’s antics, and something in his chest hurt; maybe his heart, maybe his lungs, maybe the air he choked upon, as daggered as that evening. He didn’t like to think his actions would be the root cause of Kiada’s anger and hostility towards Hotaru, he didn’t like to think the Harpy would put herself in danger because of him, he didn’t like to think anyone else in the midst of monsters and fire, struggling to find their way to his entity. He wasn’t worth that. He wasn’t worth any of it. So the General’s brows furrowed as he measured the expanse, the boundaries, the affirmations of faith and perils, eyes downcast as he settled into a nearby chair, leaning back, sighing. “You did the right thing.” She’d assured safety, and despite LongNight’s potent assignations, they’d all survived.
Other words came too, extensions of lifelines he’d rarely taken, and his penetrating gaze met hers for an instance, before sliding back down to the floor. It was easier to stifle, to wither, to decay, than give voice to any of his sentiments and ruminations; sometimes when they eroded, the simplicity in their disaster, in their ruin, in their nothingness, was a satisfying contentment, more than allowing them to live out in the open. Where they were vulnerable. Where they existed, where they slithered, where they stalked and preyed and coiled. Like old war wounds, the thoughts frayed and lingered, undulating contortions of so much acceptance that he never knew what to do with all of it. I do not deserve any of you. Why would any of his emotions have merit? Why would they matter?
They never had before – ghosts, wraiths, and specters had haunted and he’d permitted them to linger in their ether as he stalked, claimed, and destroyed, as he built foundations and walls and suffocated everything else in his path. Let them choke on the fumes. Let them die in pits. Let them wallow in his merciless wake.
Maybe the world saw how his shoulders quaked. Maybe he was weak. Maybe he’d always been nothing, and these were reminders, granules, abrading flesh and bone; he leaned forward, elbows on knees, pondering if the fortress he’d melded and molded was merely constructed on sand. If every time they spoke, they offered, he bent a little more, and eventually every stone and rock would come crashing down. What would he be in the end, then? No more fortress, no more Colossus, no more mountain, a return to ash, to dust, to rubble. “We lost three, maybe more.” He was only certain about the aforementioned – the ones whose bodies had been tucked in armories and other rooms; lost and lost again, his embers scorching over their remains, a pyre without the reverence. “Do you remember Cera?” In her sleuthing, in her thief endeavors, long before she raised her head to wear her crown – when they’d searched for ways to exploit and unravel. The one that affected him the most; no recognition of Caiside, no care for Roana.
Eternally bound into vivid contortions of silence, he listened as she described Kiada’s antics, and something in his chest hurt; maybe his heart, maybe his lungs, maybe the air he choked upon, as daggered as that evening. He didn’t like to think his actions would be the root cause of Kiada’s anger and hostility towards Hotaru, he didn’t like to think the Harpy would put herself in danger because of him, he didn’t like to think anyone else in the midst of monsters and fire, struggling to find their way to his entity. He wasn’t worth that. He wasn’t worth any of it. So the General’s brows furrowed as he measured the expanse, the boundaries, the affirmations of faith and perils, eyes downcast as he settled into a nearby chair, leaning back, sighing. “You did the right thing.” She’d assured safety, and despite LongNight’s potent assignations, they’d all survived.
Other words came too, extensions of lifelines he’d rarely taken, and his penetrating gaze met hers for an instance, before sliding back down to the floor. It was easier to stifle, to wither, to decay, than give voice to any of his sentiments and ruminations; sometimes when they eroded, the simplicity in their disaster, in their ruin, in their nothingness, was a satisfying contentment, more than allowing them to live out in the open. Where they were vulnerable. Where they existed, where they slithered, where they stalked and preyed and coiled. Like old war wounds, the thoughts frayed and lingered, undulating contortions of so much acceptance that he never knew what to do with all of it. I do not deserve any of you. Why would any of his emotions have merit? Why would they matter?
They never had before – ghosts, wraiths, and specters had haunted and he’d permitted them to linger in their ether as he stalked, claimed, and destroyed, as he built foundations and walls and suffocated everything else in his path. Let them choke on the fumes. Let them die in pits. Let them wallow in his merciless wake.
Maybe the world saw how his shoulders quaked. Maybe he was weak. Maybe he’d always been nothing, and these were reminders, granules, abrading flesh and bone; he leaned forward, elbows on knees, pondering if the fortress he’d melded and molded was merely constructed on sand. If every time they spoke, they offered, he bent a little more, and eventually every stone and rock would come crashing down. What would he be in the end, then? No more fortress, no more Colossus, no more mountain, a return to ash, to dust, to rubble. “We lost three, maybe more.” He was only certain about the aforementioned – the ones whose bodies had been tucked in armories and other rooms; lost and lost again, his embers scorching over their remains, a pyre without the reverence. “Do you remember Cera?” In her sleuthing, in her thief endeavors, long before she raised her head to wear her crown – when they’d searched for ways to exploit and unravel. The one that affected him the most; no recognition of Caiside, no care for Roana.
i rule the stars, not the other way around
