not heroes any longer - we are tragedies of firelight and flesh
unholy sacraments of blood and broken bodies
Failure rippled and rankled, their attempts more or less fizzling into nothing. He kept his features, his mind, carefully neutral as Safrin sought his gaze; a stoic, reticent regard from the previous intervals of hurt, disappointment, or overall displeasure. An invitation to elaborate was better than outright refusal (though, perhaps she just wanted a chance to click her teeth or laugh at him), and he still kept them in the palm of his hand, while Sunjata thought of lanterns and their attached memories, while Amalia drew into silence. The weight of collapse, defeat again flickered over his shoulders, but he inhaled, exhaled, and strived, tried. “Plants die, but not before they offer new life.” The seeds, falling into the earth, starting and renewing over and over again. “A cycle of death and rebirth.”
what use have we for feeble hymns of wasted faith;
for sordid songs of glory?
DEIMOS
