who we are and all that we're trying to be
Deimos was beyond capable of his own self-torture, winding and weaving its way through his soul, puncturing and piercing any determination, any machination, any calculation he’d had to spare over LongNight’s debacle. Already he’d been declared ignorant and ineffective, and in the years where he’d drawn from power, from precision, from fortitude, from the cold, barbaric void, he’d thought himself somewhat capable. Had it been arrogance? Or was the faith he put in himself misplaced?
After the Penumbra, even the Shield haunted him now. Perhaps she had gone in the interim, when he was collecting himself, when he was numb and stupid and blind while Rexanna screamed and shouted. The words echoed outside, and they were hers, hers, hers, and he had half a mind to simply go out there and rid himself of all the demons, to let the monsters reign, so he didn’t have to endure it anymore.
He sat with his back against the wall, hands yearning to close his palms over his ears, to drown out the cacophony, the panic, the strife. His broken heart said go, and his mind sputtered, spiraled, attempting to justify sentiments over the agony. Amalia? he conjured through Attuned bombardments, through the shaking fixtures of his hands, tied and tethered to everything all at once.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
