not heroes any longer - we are tragedies of firelight and flesh
unholy sacraments of blood and broken bodies
The Sword held on for as long as he could, before the iron, the mettle, the grit, the vehemence, started to slowly shatter around him.
Minute at first, the cataclysms unwinding, unfurling, from his grip, hands and fingers shaking, the composure lost and far-gone. The stoic balances, the reserved, tenacious calm, receded, no longer so resounding, no longer forged in steel. The enterprise of calm, collected poise, of a monolithic distinction, lost their peaks and summits, eroded into hills, into pitfalls, into dust and decay. He felt like falling, falling, falling, letting everything he’d ever kept below the surface to scrape, to tear, to push him down into those drowning doldrums. He felt like suffocating, asphyxiating, permitting the noose to slip around his neck and choke, strangle, until there was naught left but his bones, his anguish, his despair. Maybe, if this hadn’t happened so many times before, he wouldn’t have snapped and crackled, he wouldn’t have whittled down into bits of ash and dust.
So perhaps the Reaper had returned after all; his scythe invisible in his hands as he’d asked for guidance, as he’d asked for doors, as he’d asked for the ability to protect them. Unbeknownst, unaware, ignorant to a fault because his confidence, his strength, his fortitude would’ve seen them all through. Because he would’ve stood tall and proud and defiant to the rest, to stare the world in the face and laugh at its bellows. Because he would’ve looked down upon the world in his vicious wake and thought himself some guard, some soulless shield to ensure their survival.
He’d come for her, for him, for all of them in his cloaks and daggers, in his specious, stupid resolve. What had his bravery done? What had his might consumed? What did it matter, really, in the end? He should’ve been more. Should’ve been better. Should’ve been wiser.
Maybe she’d known all along that he wouldn’t amount to anything, that after all these years of Kings and Thieves, of golden spectacles and worn-out death, of Generals and Penumbras, he still wouldn’t be enough. That he’d test and puncture and pierce and bruise without meaning to, foolish and ridiculous, consumed with the notion that he could spin sedition, that he could win over the monsters, the demons, triumph in trickery.
Outside her room, in the midst of silence, he reluctantly sank down to the floor. The beast eventually, painstakingly crumbled, a meticulous corrosion, a released disintegration, until perhaps he was nothing but ether, smoke, fumes, and vestiges. He tucked his head in between his knees, gasped for air amidst the inaudible sobs, the gravity of his undoing. What he’d done. What he’d smothered and pilfered and killed. “I am sorry,” he spoke and wished she could hear him. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry,” a repeated refrain, and maybe one could reach her ghost, her spirit, or her wraith might strike him down, and he’d deserve it. “Please forgive me.” Because he’d never been enough, for anyone, for anything, ever in his life – and this consuming, swallowing, devouring moment solidified it.
Minute at first, the cataclysms unwinding, unfurling, from his grip, hands and fingers shaking, the composure lost and far-gone. The stoic balances, the reserved, tenacious calm, receded, no longer so resounding, no longer forged in steel. The enterprise of calm, collected poise, of a monolithic distinction, lost their peaks and summits, eroded into hills, into pitfalls, into dust and decay. He felt like falling, falling, falling, letting everything he’d ever kept below the surface to scrape, to tear, to push him down into those drowning doldrums. He felt like suffocating, asphyxiating, permitting the noose to slip around his neck and choke, strangle, until there was naught left but his bones, his anguish, his despair. Maybe, if this hadn’t happened so many times before, he wouldn’t have snapped and crackled, he wouldn’t have whittled down into bits of ash and dust.
So perhaps the Reaper had returned after all; his scythe invisible in his hands as he’d asked for guidance, as he’d asked for doors, as he’d asked for the ability to protect them. Unbeknownst, unaware, ignorant to a fault because his confidence, his strength, his fortitude would’ve seen them all through. Because he would’ve stood tall and proud and defiant to the rest, to stare the world in the face and laugh at its bellows. Because he would’ve looked down upon the world in his vicious wake and thought himself some guard, some soulless shield to ensure their survival.
He’d come for her, for him, for all of them in his cloaks and daggers, in his specious, stupid resolve. What had his bravery done? What had his might consumed? What did it matter, really, in the end? He should’ve been more. Should’ve been better. Should’ve been wiser.
Maybe she’d known all along that he wouldn’t amount to anything, that after all these years of Kings and Thieves, of golden spectacles and worn-out death, of Generals and Penumbras, he still wouldn’t be enough. That he’d test and puncture and pierce and bruise without meaning to, foolish and ridiculous, consumed with the notion that he could spin sedition, that he could win over the monsters, the demons, triumph in trickery.
Outside her room, in the midst of silence, he reluctantly sank down to the floor. The beast eventually, painstakingly crumbled, a meticulous corrosion, a released disintegration, until perhaps he was nothing but ether, smoke, fumes, and vestiges. He tucked his head in between his knees, gasped for air amidst the inaudible sobs, the gravity of his undoing. What he’d done. What he’d smothered and pilfered and killed. “I am sorry,” he spoke and wished she could hear him. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry,” a repeated refrain, and maybe one could reach her ghost, her spirit, or her wraith might strike him down, and he’d deserve it. “Please forgive me.” Because he’d never been enough, for anyone, for anything, ever in his life – and this consuming, swallowing, devouring moment solidified it.
what use have we for feeble hymns of wasted faith;
for sordid songs of glory?
DEIMOS
