Hurt so Good

D e i m o s

Send a heartbeat to the void that cries through you
Relive the pictures that have come to pass

Remi had always offered himself to whatever capacity they required of him; which Deimos had always regarded as too much, apologies and regrets in the notion of his untimely necessities, striving and struggling to give back to all the things they’d asked the alchemist to conquer. It never felt quite enough; and then Deimos had burned down his and Ronin’s home. Despite Remi’s insistence and assurances that it was fine, that there’d been monsters within and it was truly the only way anything could’ve gone, the guilt still ate, still consumed, still devoured some portions of his marrow. Bringing the Monster Hunter’s Guild down to ashes and embers hadn’t been a grand way to repay any favors. Another target reformed joined the pile, until there were only a few of the distorted, shattered, frayed things left. They’d soon join their other brethren back on the front lines, and Deimos listened while he worked, scholarly predilections while he cast his wares back into routine. Jigano would only continue to grow and persist in this range too, no matter if Safrin had accounted for it in her wrath and vengeance, in her pride and envy, or if it didn’t really matter to her. Perhaps she considered him altered and belittled, enough so she wouldn’t have to cross paths with the bard again. “Did you have other magic, before?” Before portals, before the Voice plucked them all from different lands, before, before, before – an anthem, a banner, an emblem a majority of them flown when it was all they’d known and experienced. The Sword didn’t expect the notions of acquired things to flicker back onto him – but perhaps he hadn’t described the events with Jigano as he had with Kiada and Loren. He should’ve anticipated the Loreseeker’s curiosity, and shrugged with a sensation of slight humor – some similarities in their tales, especially with the aforementioned goddess. “Safrin,” he started, the edges of his lips curled into the fringes of a smile again. “I asked for more strength,” because he’d been desperate to become, to grasp, to hold, those endeavors of power, of contortions beyond his means, the rapacious edges, the avaricious fringes, grasping hold of his sentiments – to protect, to shield, to guard when and where he could. The sensation of liberation and deliverance amongst it, within it, and thereafter, had been such marvelous displays of freedom – more than he might’ve ever known. “She told me I had it all within. To stop looking on the outside.” A shrug, because he still wasn’t entirely certain. “Then she dropped me from the sky.” One chance, one opportunity, or death, for there was no way he would’ve cried out for her to save him, despite her singular offer. He didn’t mention the ghosts that stirred against his soul, the way the wraiths and phantoms loomed, the way the spirits guided – maybe parts of within he couldn’t quite explain beyond flashes of rain and water and fire, telling him to fly. “Before I could hit the ground, I was an eagle.” For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate