not heroes any longer - we are tragedies of firelight and flesh
unholy sacraments of blood and broken bodies
They’d been through these tumultuous eaves before, when the blight spread and nothing happened for it. They’d done their best to alleviate, to eliminate, and what had the Voice done in return? What had the Ascended done to ensure it ceased? Promises, vows, convictions it wouldn’t happen again? And they could’ve had a chance, an opportunity, to cease and desist the monsters’ reign altogether? Perhaps it was merely estimation, a guess, an assumption, but the fire, the inferno, the distaste registered in his ribs and carved out a niche. Maybe it was a method for her to pull him away from the grief, from the melancholy, from the hole he’d dug himself within – but there was still blame in his heart for himself, and that would likely never quite fade.
The loathing merely slunk together with the sorrow, and made for an anthem drumming in his chest. The contortions were eerily similar, familiar, to irreverence spread through a Reaper’s hold and grasp, calloused palms across a blade’s pommel, as he pledged devastation upon an enemy.
And now? Now? Is that what they craved? Another opponent? Another adversary? Hadn’t he asked Bastien the same?
He breathed easier, a sigh released across the stone, across the echoing halls, across the hollowed darkness. The sobs lessened to an even keel of rapacious breathing, coaxing down the fire that threatened to brim and brew over, rapacity sharpening across flesh and blood. The Sword used the Shield like a lifeline, a moor, a tie to stop the impending fall, scrabbling for purchase over the grasping, grating, gnawing wake; head above the surface, reaching for clarity, for justice. Fingers laced and taut, mind remembering to inhale, to exhale. “The monsters tried to use you.” To get him to open the door, to make him listen to the sharpened outcries, the mimicking devices of her screams, of her pain, of her torment. A caution, a warning, and likely the only one he’d give – not stopping her from her missions, faith in her measures. He was just sick of the torture. “I cannot do this again.” Live in the agony, in the thrall, of their capabilities, in LongNight's terror – if the Ascended couldn’t do it, wouldn’t, then maybe it would be up to them.
Souls caught, captured, and taken, and he sat up straighter, against the wall, a hundred considerations in the well of his despair, in the wretched remorse. He raised his head to lean against the cold, hardened stone, eyes glancing at the ceiling. “Would she even want that?” Would his starving need for redemption even be craved? Or were they content to remain in the Voice’s clutches?
The loathing merely slunk together with the sorrow, and made for an anthem drumming in his chest. The contortions were eerily similar, familiar, to irreverence spread through a Reaper’s hold and grasp, calloused palms across a blade’s pommel, as he pledged devastation upon an enemy.
And now? Now? Is that what they craved? Another opponent? Another adversary? Hadn’t he asked Bastien the same?
He breathed easier, a sigh released across the stone, across the echoing halls, across the hollowed darkness. The sobs lessened to an even keel of rapacious breathing, coaxing down the fire that threatened to brim and brew over, rapacity sharpening across flesh and blood. The Sword used the Shield like a lifeline, a moor, a tie to stop the impending fall, scrabbling for purchase over the grasping, grating, gnawing wake; head above the surface, reaching for clarity, for justice. Fingers laced and taut, mind remembering to inhale, to exhale. “The monsters tried to use you.” To get him to open the door, to make him listen to the sharpened outcries, the mimicking devices of her screams, of her pain, of her torment. A caution, a warning, and likely the only one he’d give – not stopping her from her missions, faith in her measures. He was just sick of the torture. “I cannot do this again.” Live in the agony, in the thrall, of their capabilities, in LongNight's terror – if the Ascended couldn’t do it, wouldn’t, then maybe it would be up to them.
Souls caught, captured, and taken, and he sat up straighter, against the wall, a hundred considerations in the well of his despair, in the wretched remorse. He raised his head to lean against the cold, hardened stone, eyes glancing at the ceiling. “Would she even want that?” Would his starving need for redemption even be craved? Or were they content to remain in the Voice’s clutches?
what use have we for feeble hymns of wasted faith;
for sordid songs of glory?
DEIMOS
