DEIMOS
we've all got blood on our hands
something somewhere had to die
so we could stay alive
How often had they committed to things that, in the end, hadn’t truly mattered? He’d done the same throughout life after life; and only recently within the Spire, all of them desperate to slay what they believed the blight permeated from. The poisonous, toxic plants, smoldering and smoking down below, had been disassembled, destroyed, but they’d all been in danger – and for what? When the foundations rumbled, cracked, frayed, and fissured, when they escaped, when they materialized within the Hollowed Grounds again, had anything altered? The blight still remained. Everyone had still been sick. There’d been not a single adjustment or variation in the pestilence – and they’d run out of time. The world seemed to maneuver in those series and cycles, and people joined, clambered together, to race towards heightening their presence, demonstrating their worth, or striving, trying, to make the realm, the kingdom, better for all. And just because they’d attempted didn’t grant or guarantee success. So they were either destined to maneuver the earth again, or die beneath its overwhelming wake.
When they reached the footsteps of her home, the Artist’s Sanctuary, the curiosity inveigled, untangled from him, an inquiring, boyish mind clambering, of her silence, of only the remaining statement and naught more; but he swallowed it down. “Where would you like this?” The Sword uttered instead, hands still full of the tank, the worm, and the means and measures towards new eyes.
