Whoa, you let your feet run wild
Time has come as we all go down
There were days where he was hollowed, carved out, split apart in ruins and runes. Not something to be envied, savored, or cherished; a strength and fortitude built upon fallen, crumbling wakes and stones. Stoicism fortified in breaking apart from the inside out, on remaining tied and tethered to the earth while the rest of him faded away, led down into rubble and distortion by those infernal spreads of fury and compassion. He simply wore it well: pressed on while ribs fettered and hearts blackened, churned to ice and bitterness, while organs and bones resisted, defied, devoured, a guard, a soldier, a warrior until death pummeled and beat and tore into him again. Not a god either, not even something to be near paragons or the virtuous ilk, bleeding unceremoniously into their innocence, unraveling his iniquity when the world simply clawed and tore into him too much. When it all consumed and swallowed, when it all choked and deprived. When it all collided and he had nowhere else to go but through the inward apathy and down into the vicious nonchalance. It was strength merely to keep himself together, bound, instead of unfurling piece by piece, strand by strand, until seams buckled and they saw him for what he really was.
Still the Sword offered far more than the Reaper ever had; possibly because he held more here, allowed, permitted, to erode, to be content for more than a moment. So he extended and extended and extended to them – those precious few who’d come or returned to his life, a fortification, a rendering of tenacity and obstinance for them to cling and mold within. And if it was all he could manage, all he could do, it was better than nothing.
But still they quaked, and they faltered, and they fumbled; like shivering aspen leaves, like shuddering masses; never allowed to fetter or flicker in the Basin, as they did in the Hollowed Grounds. He had half a notion to laugh at her first statement, between the tears, the strife, and the nuances cracking over shoulders. “Yes, you are.” They all stumbled around like fools then, Sunjata, Phoebe, and the rest – to not see the sheen, to not see the power, to not see the worth of Hotaru. “It is his loss.” A shrug, a tease along his mouth, dimpling one corner as if he were to smile. “Perhaps he could not handle you.” Which wasn't saying much for Sunjata, that he would not appeal to a strong, determined woman, who could sweep the floor and murder him in one fell swoop. Weakness in the other man, a bizarre incantation of being drawn to something, someone, else. Another senseless shrug, a roll of muscle, sinew, and flesh, as if to scrape it away and down, out of sight, out of bounds, out of reach. Maybe it was an opportunity for Hotaru to escape the strangled sense of madness that was Sunjata’s orbit: the intertwining, unwinding selfish regard, or the stupidity that came with it. The General had thought the man fairly competent when they’d discussed tactics or blew apart things with the catapult: but maybe he was just inclined towards disaster, and Deimos hadn’t seen it, hadn’t realized it until now. A lost cause; vitriol spun along the inside.
So he listened again instead, to the infernal gathering behind her eyes, to the vindication and vengeance sliding from within, something he could grasp and hold with her. The need for revolution and rebuttal had always been strong – years of the Basin had instilled it within them, eyes for eyes, teeth for teeth, carcasses for carcasses, even exchanges of abuse and treachery around every turn. Air flickered and filtered in a heavy sigh; because he’d never gone after those who punctured hearts. “Will he do that to himself, or do you intend to be the cause?”
Still the Sword offered far more than the Reaper ever had; possibly because he held more here, allowed, permitted, to erode, to be content for more than a moment. So he extended and extended and extended to them – those precious few who’d come or returned to his life, a fortification, a rendering of tenacity and obstinance for them to cling and mold within. And if it was all he could manage, all he could do, it was better than nothing.
But still they quaked, and they faltered, and they fumbled; like shivering aspen leaves, like shuddering masses; never allowed to fetter or flicker in the Basin, as they did in the Hollowed Grounds. He had half a notion to laugh at her first statement, between the tears, the strife, and the nuances cracking over shoulders. “Yes, you are.” They all stumbled around like fools then, Sunjata, Phoebe, and the rest – to not see the sheen, to not see the power, to not see the worth of Hotaru. “It is his loss.” A shrug, a tease along his mouth, dimpling one corner as if he were to smile. “Perhaps he could not handle you.” Which wasn't saying much for Sunjata, that he would not appeal to a strong, determined woman, who could sweep the floor and murder him in one fell swoop. Weakness in the other man, a bizarre incantation of being drawn to something, someone, else. Another senseless shrug, a roll of muscle, sinew, and flesh, as if to scrape it away and down, out of sight, out of bounds, out of reach. Maybe it was an opportunity for Hotaru to escape the strangled sense of madness that was Sunjata’s orbit: the intertwining, unwinding selfish regard, or the stupidity that came with it. The General had thought the man fairly competent when they’d discussed tactics or blew apart things with the catapult: but maybe he was just inclined towards disaster, and Deimos hadn’t seen it, hadn’t realized it until now. A lost cause; vitriol spun along the inside.
So he listened again instead, to the infernal gathering behind her eyes, to the vindication and vengeance sliding from within, something he could grasp and hold with her. The need for revolution and rebuttal had always been strong – years of the Basin had instilled it within them, eyes for eyes, teeth for teeth, carcasses for carcasses, even exchanges of abuse and treachery around every turn. Air flickered and filtered in a heavy sigh; because he’d never gone after those who punctured hearts. “Will he do that to himself, or do you intend to be the cause?”
Yeah but for the fall—oh, my—
Do you dare to look them right in the eyes?
DEIMOS
