legends are slippery little things. for the glory that coats them
hides the pain, suffering
The reverie faded on a stunned shroud, as if the music, the tones, the contentment was siphoned off and away – lifting his head to survey the scene, ponder over what was occurring, collective gasps and drones filling the void, the absence of music. The monster in the foreground, rumbling forward, muddy, mired, and holding something, crashed, beckoned, and suddenly the bewildered contortions in his mind broke away – and then there were only screams, only shrapnel, only wounds, only the reverberations of so many other events and experiences in his life.
Invasions, war, crusades, all warped and entangled in his memories, clustered down the back of his throat, one series of disasters from the next – and he could feel his heart ricocheting through his chest, his breath coming in shortened gasps, ghosts flickering at the corners of his eyes. Turning his head only encompassed more carnage, more ruin, more abominations, and for a moment he simply couldn’t move. It’d been like demons. It’d been like hell. It’d been like friends falling, begging, pleading for their lives, and nowhere to go. It’d been like a cacophony of noise and panic, of pandemonium and slaughter.
Then the inherent, muscle-born memory kicked in, the haunting poignancy faded away, and there was only the multitudes of mayhem before them all. He maneuvered, abandoning the catapult, catching Zuriel’s gaze and nodding, fluidly bounding together over the fields, listening to the pouring of demands, commands, and outcries, narrowed eyes trying to pinpoint any of his loved ones, and then others that required some aid. Through the distractions, he didn’t notice the icy shards raining down in his direction until a familiar lacerating, stabbing, blinding sensation ripped and tore through his upper arm, blood instantly trickling down along fabric and flesh; ripping it out of his muscle in irritation, gnashing teeth, clenching jaw. He didn’t have time for this. Another assaulted his hip, not as petulant, but enough. All of it was enough.
Then he could hear Amalia’s cries. Kiada’s voice. Start moving bodies. Get out of the way.
Visions of fire, of screams filled the void again, and he shook them off, away, intrepid once, maneuvering as best he could throughout the onslaught, directing a few in the direction of the sanctuary, while he forced panic away from gripping his ribs, his soul. The apprehension and consternation still curled and coiled – until he had to shut everything off, Reaper influences, detachment and apathy when it truly couldn’t embody him any longer. He could see a crowd gathered nearby, Amalia’s familiar form there, alive and whole, uncertain about the others in the midst, and then there were a flash of blonde hair, a scream of his name (Hotaru?) somewhere nearby, and then Kiada-
He didn’t allow despair or torment or anything else puncture through his shuddering inhale, exhale; time slowing down as he ran towards her. Like eternities, like eons, like decades, like opposing lives, as if he simply couldn’t get there fast enough – and then at her side, near Hotaru, kneeling down in the muck, taking in the damage, thoughts of her mother and LongNight’s debacle bristling into his entity. “I have you,” was all he could utter, threading his arms underneath her form, ignoring the agony in his arm, in his hip again, Zuriel’s horn glowing, glowing, glowing, attempting to heal as much as she could. Her eyes might have turned to him, and he shook his head, more importance placed on the Harpy, gaze bearing over who else might require aid, bringing her up towards his chest, cradling, protecting, shielding.
--
Deimos scoops up Kiada and Zuriel is working on healing her!
Invasions, war, crusades, all warped and entangled in his memories, clustered down the back of his throat, one series of disasters from the next – and he could feel his heart ricocheting through his chest, his breath coming in shortened gasps, ghosts flickering at the corners of his eyes. Turning his head only encompassed more carnage, more ruin, more abominations, and for a moment he simply couldn’t move. It’d been like demons. It’d been like hell. It’d been like friends falling, begging, pleading for their lives, and nowhere to go. It’d been like a cacophony of noise and panic, of pandemonium and slaughter.
Then the inherent, muscle-born memory kicked in, the haunting poignancy faded away, and there was only the multitudes of mayhem before them all. He maneuvered, abandoning the catapult, catching Zuriel’s gaze and nodding, fluidly bounding together over the fields, listening to the pouring of demands, commands, and outcries, narrowed eyes trying to pinpoint any of his loved ones, and then others that required some aid. Through the distractions, he didn’t notice the icy shards raining down in his direction until a familiar lacerating, stabbing, blinding sensation ripped and tore through his upper arm, blood instantly trickling down along fabric and flesh; ripping it out of his muscle in irritation, gnashing teeth, clenching jaw. He didn’t have time for this. Another assaulted his hip, not as petulant, but enough. All of it was enough.
Then he could hear Amalia’s cries. Kiada’s voice. Start moving bodies. Get out of the way.
Visions of fire, of screams filled the void again, and he shook them off, away, intrepid once, maneuvering as best he could throughout the onslaught, directing a few in the direction of the sanctuary, while he forced panic away from gripping his ribs, his soul. The apprehension and consternation still curled and coiled – until he had to shut everything off, Reaper influences, detachment and apathy when it truly couldn’t embody him any longer. He could see a crowd gathered nearby, Amalia’s familiar form there, alive and whole, uncertain about the others in the midst, and then there were a flash of blonde hair, a scream of his name (Hotaru?) somewhere nearby, and then Kiada-
He didn’t allow despair or torment or anything else puncture through his shuddering inhale, exhale; time slowing down as he ran towards her. Like eternities, like eons, like decades, like opposing lives, as if he simply couldn’t get there fast enough – and then at her side, near Hotaru, kneeling down in the muck, taking in the damage, thoughts of her mother and LongNight’s debacle bristling into his entity. “I have you,” was all he could utter, threading his arms underneath her form, ignoring the agony in his arm, in his hip again, Zuriel’s horn glowing, glowing, glowing, attempting to heal as much as she could. Her eyes might have turned to him, and he shook his head, more importance placed on the Harpy, gaze bearing over who else might require aid, bringing her up towards his chest, cradling, protecting, shielding.
--
Deimos scoops up Kiada and Zuriel is working on healing her!
and death that spun them
DEIMOS
