DEIMOS
Not a weight, but a pending laceration against his chest, along the folds of withered hearts and Stygian beliefs. Are you still numb? There’d been times where he wished he was, so still horrifically detached and apathetic to the world around him, coiling and unfurling through lands as he’d done in Reaper folds: indifferent, unfeeling. Because then nothing would hurt so much, nothing would claw and race down his spine, his skin, or punch him in the gut. Deaths wouldn’t matter. The realms would continue to march on and on, and he’d be the Colossus maneuvering through its space, barely eroding, barely fissuring, barely cracking.
Except then he wouldn’t have anything all over again, another empty shell, another void, another hollowed out carcass. He wouldn’t have Amalia, devotion, love, promises, or commitments. He wouldn’t have Kiada, Hotaru, Rexanna, or any of the others who’d found their way into his savage, seditious entity, imploring him to be human instead of the manipulative, derisive machine from Helovia – those instances perished and gone, along with his bones in the mountainside. “No,” he answered finally, just as tired, just as drawn-out, just as forbearing and timeless. An ache in his lungs, a fire in his essence, fatigue stretching over his skull.
The Sword stared straight ahead, and then down to the table, to its veneer and surface, glancing for cracks, for polish to be worn away. He didn’t glance at her, didn’t see the rise of beasts over her skin, and only heard the intonations, the reverberations, gathered against him. “I have always fought,” he said immediately, a truth. Whether or not it was a war upon himself, or anyone else; striving, struggling, aspiring for other notions, beliefs, from beyond shambles and bones. A guard for eternity, walls upon walls upon walls, ramparts, fortifications, bastions, motions ready to assault and siege so no one came any closer – and for so long it had worked. No one bothered him. No one wanted to know him. No one cared. He was safer that way – lonely, decaying, and utterly isolated, but safer. “Hiding meant no one would see my weaknesses. Hiding meant no one could use them against me or harm those I cared about.” Like friends. Like loved ones. Like the very few who’d come into his tight circle of protection and shelter.
And he’d done it for so long that it was as natural as breathing – and far more difficult to pry his mouth, his jaws apart, to relish or savor anything from his mind that wasn’t action or spurned by some other motives. Her snap was justified; he could feel it surge and seethe along his flesh, and he didn’t shirk it away, didn’t deny it. “I did not mean it that way,” he whispered, gone quiet and still, careful breaths, slow inhales and exhales, picking his way apart. “I have every faith in you,” (just not in myself) followed, his eyes finally drawn back to hers, the same solid conviction he’d always shared upon her. “I do not know what you want to see.” He’d tried the war aspect – and it hadn’t gone well. Everything was too broad, too overwhelming, too massive. Start small he muffled through their bond.
Except then he wouldn’t have anything all over again, another empty shell, another void, another hollowed out carcass. He wouldn’t have Amalia, devotion, love, promises, or commitments. He wouldn’t have Kiada, Hotaru, Rexanna, or any of the others who’d found their way into his savage, seditious entity, imploring him to be human instead of the manipulative, derisive machine from Helovia – those instances perished and gone, along with his bones in the mountainside. “No,” he answered finally, just as tired, just as drawn-out, just as forbearing and timeless. An ache in his lungs, a fire in his essence, fatigue stretching over his skull.
The Sword stared straight ahead, and then down to the table, to its veneer and surface, glancing for cracks, for polish to be worn away. He didn’t glance at her, didn’t see the rise of beasts over her skin, and only heard the intonations, the reverberations, gathered against him. “I have always fought,” he said immediately, a truth. Whether or not it was a war upon himself, or anyone else; striving, struggling, aspiring for other notions, beliefs, from beyond shambles and bones. A guard for eternity, walls upon walls upon walls, ramparts, fortifications, bastions, motions ready to assault and siege so no one came any closer – and for so long it had worked. No one bothered him. No one wanted to know him. No one cared. He was safer that way – lonely, decaying, and utterly isolated, but safer. “Hiding meant no one would see my weaknesses. Hiding meant no one could use them against me or harm those I cared about.” Like friends. Like loved ones. Like the very few who’d come into his tight circle of protection and shelter.
And he’d done it for so long that it was as natural as breathing – and far more difficult to pry his mouth, his jaws apart, to relish or savor anything from his mind that wasn’t action or spurned by some other motives. Her snap was justified; he could feel it surge and seethe along his flesh, and he didn’t shirk it away, didn’t deny it. “I did not mean it that way,” he whispered, gone quiet and still, careful breaths, slow inhales and exhales, picking his way apart. “I have every faith in you,” (just not in myself) followed, his eyes finally drawn back to hers, the same solid conviction he’d always shared upon her. “I do not know what you want to see.” He’d tried the war aspect – and it hadn’t gone well. Everything was too broad, too overwhelming, too massive. Start small he muffled through their bond.
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
