who we are and all that we're trying to be
His pace was more defined now, not leisurely, but a semblance of a savage wake again, maneuvering, motioning, on the insistence of Flowerbirth, choking down the noose, the dread, the inclination they’d all make it until then. Experience gnarled, gnashed, and burned down his throat on the insinuations of yesteryears – where they hadn’t listened, where they’d opened doors and allowed havoc to reign, where the blistering enamel of fire curled from his palms, and he brought the shelter down around them. Maybe he could lacquer it to another goal, to ensure they’d remain, they’d be steadfast and resolute, that apertures wouldn’t be easily accessed, that somehow, someway, they’d make it through in one piece.
But he knew better.
It was why the Sword insisted on being strong, on carrying the weight across his shoulders, on being the damned, the infidel, the cretin, the powerful, the potent. Despite those nuances, those unwavering chords, it never seemed to be enough. Others still perished. Others still died. Others still wandered out into the twilight’s void, never to return.
A growl threatened to loosen from his chest, and he ambled forward, grateful for the distraction, down another main street until they reached the militia grounds. Here he could at least smother and drown the uncertainties, the soulless voids, in the comfort of familiarity – gaze landing upon the training grounds, outstretched in the autumn air, focus inherent on the potent things laden within: armories, onslaughts, armaments, and fortifications. These are my barracks. If you ever need to find me, I will likely be here.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
