not heroes any longer - we are tragedies of firelight and flesh
unholy sacraments of blood and broken bodies
The piercing denial longed and yearned to slip across his lips - yes, I did, yes, I did - to feed on the guilt and burrow into the stone, become marble and monolith, still and stupefied in his grief. The Reaper was never permitted to flicker into his melancholy beyond a brooding configuration, the shadows in the dark, but here, here, he couldn’t stop the clawing, the rasping, the tearing of his blackened, acrid heart. Allowed to love and cherish in return, and then blister when it was torn away, nothing to grasp hold of now, to keep the Penumbra with the rest of them.
And he’d have to tell Kiada –
The notion spun into his throat and he thought about choking on the air, on the expanse, on the soulless void lacerating him from the inside out.
But Amalia’s words echoed and reverberated, piercing through the threshold of his self-loathing. His gaze followed into hers, narrowing as much they could with the swollen ramparts, striving to follow in the confusion, in the parallels, in the faults and flaws. “What?” They could’ve stopped it? The calculations, the machinations, spiraled and curled out of the fumes and plumes, and his jaw snapped shut, an audible clenching this time, twisting and distorting somewhere in the midst of a brewing, brimming rage. “Why would they-“ wait?
Unless they didn’t want to stop them. Unless the reign of terror was justifiable, suitable for them. Unless everything the Voice had done, had tried, stayed committed to its demonic form.
He grabbed hold of her hands, fingers enclosing, striving to ground himself in between and amongst the storm of emotions. It was a turbulence the beast was unaccustomed to – except for the boiling anger (he knew that one well). The Sword heard too many things about souls lost and gone, tilting his head in her presence, something in his ribs resting, tired of trying. “How?”
And he’d have to tell Kiada –
The notion spun into his throat and he thought about choking on the air, on the expanse, on the soulless void lacerating him from the inside out.
But Amalia’s words echoed and reverberated, piercing through the threshold of his self-loathing. His gaze followed into hers, narrowing as much they could with the swollen ramparts, striving to follow in the confusion, in the parallels, in the faults and flaws. “What?” They could’ve stopped it? The calculations, the machinations, spiraled and curled out of the fumes and plumes, and his jaw snapped shut, an audible clenching this time, twisting and distorting somewhere in the midst of a brewing, brimming rage. “Why would they-“ wait?
Unless they didn’t want to stop them. Unless the reign of terror was justifiable, suitable for them. Unless everything the Voice had done, had tried, stayed committed to its demonic form.
He grabbed hold of her hands, fingers enclosing, striving to ground himself in between and amongst the storm of emotions. It was a turbulence the beast was unaccustomed to – except for the boiling anger (he knew that one well). The Sword heard too many things about souls lost and gone, tilting his head in her presence, something in his ribs resting, tired of trying. “How?”
what use have we for feeble hymns of wasted faith;
for sordid songs of glory?
DEIMOS
