not heroes any longer - we are tragedies of firelight and flesh
unholy sacraments of blood and broken bodies
Reality sunk and simmered; errors in understanding again. His jaw clenched tight, notions, comprehension coiling and scraping down his spine, taut, hands curling into fists, expression otherwise distant, reticent, while he warred along the inside. He wasn’t certain who to be angry at, or if he should just coil back into ruin here and now, with the way the world churned and burned and threatened – why he bothered fighting against it constantly when it all tumbled down upon him anyway. Why he willingly carried all their weight on his shoulders. Why he faced barrage after barrage.
Why he’d fought for Amalia time and time and time again, when she wasn’t willing to fight for herself. When no matter what he did for her seemingly amounted to naught.
For a moment, he was nothing – absolutely nothing but some living, breathing vessel, a hollowed-carved out niche. The Sword considered weighing out the onslaught, the grind in his potency, simply declaring no. But it wasn’t his decision to make, and Amalia hadn’t considered him. Hadn’t even looked at him. Just willingly gave herself over.
“We can find something else.” An echo of Sunjata, and then his eyes lifted back to the goddess, swallowing down anything and everything. “Or you can take me instead.” Because he’d been dead, perished in mountain walls, and reborn. Why? For what purpose?
And did it matter?
Why he’d fought for Amalia time and time and time again, when she wasn’t willing to fight for herself. When no matter what he did for her seemingly amounted to naught.
For a moment, he was nothing – absolutely nothing but some living, breathing vessel, a hollowed-carved out niche. The Sword considered weighing out the onslaught, the grind in his potency, simply declaring no. But it wasn’t his decision to make, and Amalia hadn’t considered him. Hadn’t even looked at him. Just willingly gave herself over.
“We can find something else.” An echo of Sunjata, and then his eyes lifted back to the goddess, swallowing down anything and everything. “Or you can take me instead.” Because he’d been dead, perished in mountain walls, and reborn. Why? For what purpose?
And did it matter?
what use have we for feeble hymns of wasted faith;
for sordid songs of glory?
DEIMOS
