DEIMOS
Abhorrence, contempt, and malice been born and bred into their bones from a tender age in Isilme, multitudes and machinations of hate built into their forms, their figures, from the moment one could understand its meaning, its vices, its vitriol. Vehemence came in force, in words, carved, sculpted, into their existence that to know peace, serenity, or tranquility, was nearly a foreign concept – brief lulls before the next tempestuous storm. Violence came just as easily as breathing, manipulations came just as easily as moving, and war-torn shambles were a segment of normalcy, decadent ruins, ash, soot, dust, and nothingness. Helovia was only slightly better because repose lasted for longer stretches; by the time he’d perished, they’d managed a stint of calm, relegating to ensuring their livelihoods were better overall, instead of rampaging to the next land, instead of laying waste to another kingdom. Perhaps it’d been newer generations. Maybe it’d been wiser minds. Or it’d been a collective assemblage of children who’d watched their elders tear and lacerate into the world, and didn’t want to see it any longer.
Her quiet concession, no longer flickering over his hushed, clawing indignation, picked apart the edges of his wrath until all that was left were the fringes of exhaustion. The tired layers coiled along his muscles, his jaw, his eyes, until his elbows were on the table, his chin settled in his palms, a heavy sigh pressed, then released from his chest. He hadn’t come here to fight. He hadn’t come here to do anything than offer his support for her hurt, for the bombardments they seemed to constantly face. Snarking and blistering at one another, caustic imbalances, overwhelming circumstances, had only seemed to make the situation worse. Still loved, still cherished, despite all his vile parts – why he’d always told her he wasn’t worthy of her. His heart hurt, his lungs ached, and the desire to simply disappear into the ether was stronger than ever; only remaining because of the Shield’s presence. His eyelids felt heavy, his shoulders yearning to cave from the weight, a whisper barely billowing from his mouth. “It was how we were raised and trained.” No shrug given, the grumbling tones exuding into Adam’s sanction and sanctuary. “You become numb to it. It feels normal.” To swing swords into enemies, to pace through the realms like a knife, like a dagger, like a pernicious existence.
And here? He could understand the Naturals’ sway and vehemence towards Outlander tendencies – the exposure, the culture he would’ve brought over held only bits and pieces of any good to it: mostly death, mostly insurrection, mostly primeval platitudes. Here was an opportunity, a chance, for redemption, even when he faltered and stumbled along the way. “Though it is nice to not be constantly fighting,” an admission for her, followed by a quiet snort. Instead they nettled and thorned their way through other situations, through harsh, rash judgments, through death plagued by foolishness or just misfortune. Even Zariah’s presence hadn’t unfurled any lasting loathing, save for the Merciless alone. In Helovia they would’ve challenged and deigned to rip her apart. “I trust you would stop me anyway.” A half-smile, etching its way along his mouth, too exhausted and too tired to care any longer, before it faded away. “I will not show you anymore then.” No more images of war, of belligerence, of the motions of war; she would’ve seen it anyway, in the undulations and ripples of muscles, of scars.
Her quiet concession, no longer flickering over his hushed, clawing indignation, picked apart the edges of his wrath until all that was left were the fringes of exhaustion. The tired layers coiled along his muscles, his jaw, his eyes, until his elbows were on the table, his chin settled in his palms, a heavy sigh pressed, then released from his chest. He hadn’t come here to fight. He hadn’t come here to do anything than offer his support for her hurt, for the bombardments they seemed to constantly face. Snarking and blistering at one another, caustic imbalances, overwhelming circumstances, had only seemed to make the situation worse. Still loved, still cherished, despite all his vile parts – why he’d always told her he wasn’t worthy of her. His heart hurt, his lungs ached, and the desire to simply disappear into the ether was stronger than ever; only remaining because of the Shield’s presence. His eyelids felt heavy, his shoulders yearning to cave from the weight, a whisper barely billowing from his mouth. “It was how we were raised and trained.” No shrug given, the grumbling tones exuding into Adam’s sanction and sanctuary. “You become numb to it. It feels normal.” To swing swords into enemies, to pace through the realms like a knife, like a dagger, like a pernicious existence.
And here? He could understand the Naturals’ sway and vehemence towards Outlander tendencies – the exposure, the culture he would’ve brought over held only bits and pieces of any good to it: mostly death, mostly insurrection, mostly primeval platitudes. Here was an opportunity, a chance, for redemption, even when he faltered and stumbled along the way. “Though it is nice to not be constantly fighting,” an admission for her, followed by a quiet snort. Instead they nettled and thorned their way through other situations, through harsh, rash judgments, through death plagued by foolishness or just misfortune. Even Zariah’s presence hadn’t unfurled any lasting loathing, save for the Merciless alone. In Helovia they would’ve challenged and deigned to rip her apart. “I trust you would stop me anyway.” A half-smile, etching its way along his mouth, too exhausted and too tired to care any longer, before it faded away. “I will not show you anymore then.” No more images of war, of belligerence, of the motions of war; she would’ve seen it anyway, in the undulations and ripples of muscles, of scars.
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
