DEIMOS
They all had their fantastical figments once – when they signed their names on parchments, when they joined militia, when they cut their hair, and received their helmets, their swords, their shields. Glory was nothing but a dream, and the first real days of battle taught young soldiers that very lesson that no amount of training had ever signified. As friends were slaughtered at one’s side. As homes were taken, destroyed, snagged, obliterated. As the pounding of drums and trumpets through the fog amounted to nothing over suffering screams and outcries, bodies of allies and comrades cheering, laughing, smiling days before left in the dust and dirt. There were no picturesque scenes. No one welcomed them home – not when there was naught left.
Anyone who’d survived four wars had blood in far more places than just their hands. Maybe it was in his heart, maybe it was in his lungs, maybe it was in his twisted, agonized form. Maybe it was so blended into his soul that he scarcely noticed it anymore – pulsing and pervading, just as much as the deadly incantations, just as much as every other lethality he’d had to summon when his body had been a shield, a sword, a living, breathing weapon. That no amount of good, no amount of compassion, no amount of tenderness, warmth, comfort, or beneficence he’d ever extended seemed to wash those wounds, those scars clean. Constant reminders of what he’d done to persist, or ensure others did the same.
A stone, a statue, cast marble rigid and taut, he remained quiet, his eyes still on the table, incapable of looking at her, of being torn apart by her judgment. Perhaps it was easy to contain morals and virtues, when invasions didn’t slink down one’s back, when children weren’t threatened at every turn, when enemies didn’t snag or imprison just the same, when the cycle of vengeance wasn’t so paramount, accepted, or regarded. It wasn’t how things were done here. He’d learned that. He’d assimilated into it. He’d done his best to find his footing, his control, his composure.
He waited for the ax to fall. Waited for the noose to strangle, waited for the knot he’d done for himself to break his neck. Waited for her to say she was done, because no one could love something so menacing, so terrifying, so callous, so wicked, so feral. But the words she attached to, not the series of oaths and iniquities, was the finality of his position – that he’d do it again if necessary. Only then did his gaze swing back to hers, to stare at the overwhelming weight of surprise, bewilderment, and unhappiness (wondered if hate would set itself in her gaze too; if things he’d come to associate with the cosmos, with stars, with serenity, would simply stab him in the gut). “If there were no other solutions.” Thus far, there had been: they’d rebelled, they’d dug holes in basements leading to prisons, they’d strived for things not relished or savored in violence – and still, death had come.
Anyone who’d survived four wars had blood in far more places than just their hands. Maybe it was in his heart, maybe it was in his lungs, maybe it was in his twisted, agonized form. Maybe it was so blended into his soul that he scarcely noticed it anymore – pulsing and pervading, just as much as the deadly incantations, just as much as every other lethality he’d had to summon when his body had been a shield, a sword, a living, breathing weapon. That no amount of good, no amount of compassion, no amount of tenderness, warmth, comfort, or beneficence he’d ever extended seemed to wash those wounds, those scars clean. Constant reminders of what he’d done to persist, or ensure others did the same.
A stone, a statue, cast marble rigid and taut, he remained quiet, his eyes still on the table, incapable of looking at her, of being torn apart by her judgment. Perhaps it was easy to contain morals and virtues, when invasions didn’t slink down one’s back, when children weren’t threatened at every turn, when enemies didn’t snag or imprison just the same, when the cycle of vengeance wasn’t so paramount, accepted, or regarded. It wasn’t how things were done here. He’d learned that. He’d assimilated into it. He’d done his best to find his footing, his control, his composure.
He waited for the ax to fall. Waited for the noose to strangle, waited for the knot he’d done for himself to break his neck. Waited for her to say she was done, because no one could love something so menacing, so terrifying, so callous, so wicked, so feral. But the words she attached to, not the series of oaths and iniquities, was the finality of his position – that he’d do it again if necessary. Only then did his gaze swing back to hers, to stare at the overwhelming weight of surprise, bewilderment, and unhappiness (wondered if hate would set itself in her gaze too; if things he’d come to associate with the cosmos, with stars, with serenity, would simply stab him in the gut). “If there were no other solutions.” Thus far, there had been: they’d rebelled, they’d dug holes in basements leading to prisons, they’d strived for things not relished or savored in violence – and still, death had come.
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
