Whoa, you let your feet run wild
Time has come as we all go down
This was why he’d spent lifetimes immersed amongst indifference. This was why he’d been cold, tarnished, unattainable, unreachable, so the rest of the world left him alone. This was why he’d only slowly, painstakingly eroded, when acceptance and tolerance stared him in the face, offered their hands and their suns.
It was so much easier to not feel at all – to never carry the burdens of emotions, of vulnerabilities, of love and compassion and tenderness. He’d lived, breathed, and survived as one of those pariahs and shadowy figures for so long that it’d become normal to submerse himself into nothing but terror, domination, and heresy. To dig into iniquity and never come out on the other side. To layer condemnation and decadence into rampant intricacies. To savor ruins, abominations, and maelstroms, to give naught and take everything. To live like a blade, like a sword, like a damned heathen, consigned to oblivion, guarded, reserved, and impervious to smiles, to grins, to anything slating promises of generosity or warmth. He hadn’t needed it. He hadn’t required it. He’d been diabolical insurrection, unholy sedition, a splendor of savage movement and taut, minute motions; meant to antagonize, meant to annihilate, meant to abhor. Argent domination and sinuous, unwinding contemplation had been the only thoughts necessary: never this amount of pain, torture, and torment in the face of heartache and heartbreak, to be outlandishly tossed aside, to be shattered on the rocks, to be so utterly consumed and diminished because of one stupid, asinine individual.
The Reaper pretended that others hadn’t sunk their fringes and edges into him. He suppressed the notion that there’d been days where he’d tried and loved too; and that it hadn’t mattered. That the rain had died and perished. That the droplets had cascaded and left him behind. That ghosts didn’t conquer and wraiths didn’t show in the back of his mind, in the corner of his eyes, or in the wake of his nightmares.
The Sword lived surrounded in compassion, acceptance, love, and tolerance, and tried to instill the same upon those beloved and cherished. They were massive changes and alterations, and he’d undergone swift upheavals in their stead, when he didn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t fathom the contortions. Maybe it was her turn too.
The tears were enough to convince him to edge closer, leaning forward in his chair, an offering of his support, his arms, his confidant prowess; whatever she required. He remained quiet in the stead of seams unraveling, of strands unfurling, an unfortunate disciple of it all recently (trying not to drown, trying not to sink, trying not to choke). An avid listener, hushed in the perennial disasters, eyes lowered to the floor, awaiting something other than the pangs of pain, the echoes of tears, of sobs. He didn’t know what went on in her head, what bounded and flayed, what galvanized and shrunk; perhaps he would have offered other sentiments, other ruminations. You are strong. You are powerful. You are more than he will ever be. Do not be consumed by someone so worthless, so beneath you. Instead, she voiced mistakes, and he shook his head, piercing eyes sliding back to her ruddied, muddled face. “He did not deserve you.” Something stoked in his jaw, and it felt like anger, it felt like rancor, it felt like bitterness, caught in ivories and enamel, blistering down into his chest. He didn’t know where to aim his contempt, the multitude of other emotions waxing and waning: if it should be lanced upon the idiot man, or if his foretold misery would be enough torture for the rest of his days. A tilt of his head, contemplation in the foundations of all this loss, all this devastation, all this ruin. Not kingdoms, not wars, not countries: but her emotions, her fortitude, her might. He wasn’t sure how to make it right (save for violence, for vengeance, for vitriol, for vehemence). Quieter then, a rumble, a whisper, an offering of revenge if she craved it. “What do you want to do?”
It was so much easier to not feel at all – to never carry the burdens of emotions, of vulnerabilities, of love and compassion and tenderness. He’d lived, breathed, and survived as one of those pariahs and shadowy figures for so long that it’d become normal to submerse himself into nothing but terror, domination, and heresy. To dig into iniquity and never come out on the other side. To layer condemnation and decadence into rampant intricacies. To savor ruins, abominations, and maelstroms, to give naught and take everything. To live like a blade, like a sword, like a damned heathen, consigned to oblivion, guarded, reserved, and impervious to smiles, to grins, to anything slating promises of generosity or warmth. He hadn’t needed it. He hadn’t required it. He’d been diabolical insurrection, unholy sedition, a splendor of savage movement and taut, minute motions; meant to antagonize, meant to annihilate, meant to abhor. Argent domination and sinuous, unwinding contemplation had been the only thoughts necessary: never this amount of pain, torture, and torment in the face of heartache and heartbreak, to be outlandishly tossed aside, to be shattered on the rocks, to be so utterly consumed and diminished because of one stupid, asinine individual.
The Reaper pretended that others hadn’t sunk their fringes and edges into him. He suppressed the notion that there’d been days where he’d tried and loved too; and that it hadn’t mattered. That the rain had died and perished. That the droplets had cascaded and left him behind. That ghosts didn’t conquer and wraiths didn’t show in the back of his mind, in the corner of his eyes, or in the wake of his nightmares.
The Sword lived surrounded in compassion, acceptance, love, and tolerance, and tried to instill the same upon those beloved and cherished. They were massive changes and alterations, and he’d undergone swift upheavals in their stead, when he didn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t fathom the contortions. Maybe it was her turn too.
The tears were enough to convince him to edge closer, leaning forward in his chair, an offering of his support, his arms, his confidant prowess; whatever she required. He remained quiet in the stead of seams unraveling, of strands unfurling, an unfortunate disciple of it all recently (trying not to drown, trying not to sink, trying not to choke). An avid listener, hushed in the perennial disasters, eyes lowered to the floor, awaiting something other than the pangs of pain, the echoes of tears, of sobs. He didn’t know what went on in her head, what bounded and flayed, what galvanized and shrunk; perhaps he would have offered other sentiments, other ruminations. You are strong. You are powerful. You are more than he will ever be. Do not be consumed by someone so worthless, so beneath you. Instead, she voiced mistakes, and he shook his head, piercing eyes sliding back to her ruddied, muddled face. “He did not deserve you.” Something stoked in his jaw, and it felt like anger, it felt like rancor, it felt like bitterness, caught in ivories and enamel, blistering down into his chest. He didn’t know where to aim his contempt, the multitude of other emotions waxing and waning: if it should be lanced upon the idiot man, or if his foretold misery would be enough torture for the rest of his days. A tilt of his head, contemplation in the foundations of all this loss, all this devastation, all this ruin. Not kingdoms, not wars, not countries: but her emotions, her fortitude, her might. He wasn’t sure how to make it right (save for violence, for vengeance, for vitriol, for vehemence). Quieter then, a rumble, a whisper, an offering of revenge if she craved it. “What do you want to do?”
Yeah but for the fall—oh, my—
Do you dare to look them right in the eyes?
DEIMOS
