DEIMOS
There was no moving on for him. There was no one else. There never would be. His commitments were tried and true, his promises were devotions no matter the outcome, his vows, his assurances, some of the only portions he’d ever been able to keep whole or tangible. He’d done this too many times – been too late, been too little, been not enough – begging and pleading for lives to be saved and receiving nothing in return. Slashing his way to comrades only for them to fall at his feet. Rampaging, invading, tearing down walls and ramparts, only for the rest to rise and rise and rise, higher, greater, grander than he could ever be.
Belonging to gods; he’d known, he’d always known. It didn’t mean that it still didn’t hurt or scald, that he wouldn’t eventually undermine, growl, or reduce himself to a mere rebellious force when they tried to take her. When she’d go willingly. When he’d be left behind (again and again and again), to fend back the tumultuous, rapacious forces thundering down his backbone, piecing and piercing together whatever remained of his soul. He nodded against his arms, understanding, accepting, and dreading, a war of apprehension collected in the slide of his skin.
Then the Sword wanted to shake his head, yearned to defy because it was all he had left – why would anyone want his misery? Why would anyone want to peek in and see those shadowy fixtures, those bludgeoned halls, those makeshift thresholds, cold and glacial, chilling and barbaric? The rest of the sovereignty had enough; they all did. There were deaths, there were graves, there were tombstones marking over precipices and fields, scattered and scorched; once intrepid, the same as them, but no longer capable of emerging from those hollowed shells and vessels. Opening up that maelstrom, that despair – it gnawed, it grated, it bristled in the back of his mind, along the columns of his spine.
He turned his head so that one of his eyes, red-rimmed, peeked back at her along the crook of his elbow, still hidden, but attempting. “You have me.” Fingers clutching hers, lifelines and anchors, tethers and bulwarks, stars and suns, no matter how badly he wanted to collapse in on himself. “I will try to be better.”
Belonging to gods; he’d known, he’d always known. It didn’t mean that it still didn’t hurt or scald, that he wouldn’t eventually undermine, growl, or reduce himself to a mere rebellious force when they tried to take her. When she’d go willingly. When he’d be left behind (again and again and again), to fend back the tumultuous, rapacious forces thundering down his backbone, piecing and piercing together whatever remained of his soul. He nodded against his arms, understanding, accepting, and dreading, a war of apprehension collected in the slide of his skin.
Then the Sword wanted to shake his head, yearned to defy because it was all he had left – why would anyone want his misery? Why would anyone want to peek in and see those shadowy fixtures, those bludgeoned halls, those makeshift thresholds, cold and glacial, chilling and barbaric? The rest of the sovereignty had enough; they all did. There were deaths, there were graves, there were tombstones marking over precipices and fields, scattered and scorched; once intrepid, the same as them, but no longer capable of emerging from those hollowed shells and vessels. Opening up that maelstrom, that despair – it gnawed, it grated, it bristled in the back of his mind, along the columns of his spine.
He turned his head so that one of his eyes, red-rimmed, peeked back at her along the crook of his elbow, still hidden, but attempting. “You have me.” Fingers clutching hers, lifelines and anchors, tethers and bulwarks, stars and suns, no matter how badly he wanted to collapse in on himself. “I will try to be better.”
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
