not heroes any longer - we are tragedies of firelight and flesh
unholy sacraments of blood and broken bodies
His mind couldn’t calculate any way to make amends, any way to fix the situation. He’d always sought to move forward, onward, away from the infernal properties, to tie together broken ramparts, to render assistance, before the terrors reached or snagged at his limbs, at his bones, at his shattered remnants. The strangling nothingness was left in the wake of disastrous accord, where he could mire his figure, his frame, into its denizens and see no reason, no effort, to leave its clutches. The beast had fought hard to gain his redemption, to rise above sins of the past, only to find himself immersed in them once more.
Surrounded and pervaded by the Shield, the Sword wanted to desperately fall apart and remain together all at once. What managed to withstand were the splintered fragments of his soul, the eldritch, behemoth sways, and the smallest modicum of control, composure, he had left. Soothing balms of her words, her phrases, hovered, and he was sorry too, sorry for so many damned, doomed things. His breath rattled within his lungs, against his ribs, as if they were caged, yearning to escape the trapped bombardments of his own making.
Jyoti’s appearance, a soothing balm he couldn’t possibly fight, eased the strain he’d put in his shoulders, a binding, blinding sanctum he didn’t deserve. The little whale segmented herself in the crook of his neck, and something like an inaudible sob escaped his throat. The tremors and shudders reverberated through his skin as the heathen clenched his jaw, attempting not to collapse in on himself. An argument, a default position died on his lips, yes it is closing in behind him. There was no one else to blame: he’d been the one to ask Safrin to make the door, even after her lectures, even after she insisted on the simpler tidings, on traditional pursuits.
She wouldn’t blame you. She should’ve, if the Penumbra wasn’t already snapping, loathing, upon him from wherever her soul had gone. She loved you. He’d done the same for her, cherished and beloved friends, acceptance, tolerance for who and what he was. “And this is what I gave her in return.” Death.
A pause choked over him in the haunting poignancy, in the sway of claws and nothingness, the charred, electrical scents permeating back through his mind – another nightmare to add to the abysmal collection of terrors, trials, and tribulations. “Is it true I will not see her again?” To plead and beg for forgiveness?
Surrounded and pervaded by the Shield, the Sword wanted to desperately fall apart and remain together all at once. What managed to withstand were the splintered fragments of his soul, the eldritch, behemoth sways, and the smallest modicum of control, composure, he had left. Soothing balms of her words, her phrases, hovered, and he was sorry too, sorry for so many damned, doomed things. His breath rattled within his lungs, against his ribs, as if they were caged, yearning to escape the trapped bombardments of his own making.
Jyoti’s appearance, a soothing balm he couldn’t possibly fight, eased the strain he’d put in his shoulders, a binding, blinding sanctum he didn’t deserve. The little whale segmented herself in the crook of his neck, and something like an inaudible sob escaped his throat. The tremors and shudders reverberated through his skin as the heathen clenched his jaw, attempting not to collapse in on himself. An argument, a default position died on his lips, yes it is closing in behind him. There was no one else to blame: he’d been the one to ask Safrin to make the door, even after her lectures, even after she insisted on the simpler tidings, on traditional pursuits.
She wouldn’t blame you. She should’ve, if the Penumbra wasn’t already snapping, loathing, upon him from wherever her soul had gone. She loved you. He’d done the same for her, cherished and beloved friends, acceptance, tolerance for who and what he was. “And this is what I gave her in return.” Death.
A pause choked over him in the haunting poignancy, in the sway of claws and nothingness, the charred, electrical scents permeating back through his mind – another nightmare to add to the abysmal collection of terrors, trials, and tribulations. “Is it true I will not see her again?” To plead and beg for forgiveness?
what use have we for feeble hymns of wasted faith;
for sordid songs of glory?
DEIMOS
