not heroes any longer - we are tragedies of firelight and flesh
unholy sacraments of blood and broken bodies
Deimos had endured for lifetimes, stood against loss after loss after loss as a stoic, proud monolith, a towering, infernal slate of sedition. Perseverance ran through his blood and coiled in his veins, carved out the fibers in his mettle, the pale scars riddled across his form. But even the mightiest mountain tended to erode, weathered, beaten down, slowly corroding from the onslaughts outside their sanctums. It was exhausting to linger in the void, in the agony, in the grief for eternity, bear the brunt of despondency, desolation, and death, to stare into the void and watch their wraiths flicker off, to be left behind, to be the one who’d caused it all. Between Rexanna’s demise and the monsters wreaking havoc in his mind, he’d bombarded tiers of assaults with little to show for it, but the fatigue behind his eyes, but for the weight pulsing, pervading, aching through his shoulders. Had he been permitted, the beast would’ve taken any amount of pain and misery piercing through the Penumbra. He would’ve absorbed the anguish, the despair, the torment. He would’ve done anything for her – and the circumstances merely lacerated deeper into his broken, battered heart.
Passwords; attempted last year to no avail on their unwinding ends – unnecessary when they’d promised to open apertures every damned time there was a knock. “You may decide,” a low whisper, signifying he’d already done enough damage, his plans deemed worthless and all the more devastating.
But he didn’t want to do this again – year after year, facing the possibility of his loved ones sinking into nothing, into desecration, into disaster. Amalia dying. Kiada failing. Rexanna perishing. Enough was enough, and while the Sword could withstand the world crashing down around him, he couldn’t bear to watch those he cherished succumb to the same.
Then she was there, in his essence, in his presence, and it might’ve been the only thing holding him together. His brow met hers, his tired eyes closed, and he choked back another sob threatening to unravel, undo, unfurl everything he kept tied, tethered, knotted, and noosed. Steadying breaths layered in his chest, leaning into her entity, maintaining the barest semblance of composure beside stars and cosmos, and not deserving any of it.
The beast didn’t let go as she curled into his side; otherwise he’d sink, deeper and deeper, beyond stones and floors, down into catacombs and tombs, where he belonged. He listened, apt to do for an eternity (and what he should’ve done all along), to the confidence in her tone, to the faith instilled, to the assurance he no longer held.
Free them all. Each and every soul.
“Okay,” too tired to argue, too tired to figure out how it would even occur, too tired to pierce and piece it together – if it was another mission doomed to fail, if everything they did or committed themselves towards even mattered. Another sinking feeling flickered through his chest, and he thought to lean forward again, to hide, to contort and dissolve. “I have to tell Kiada.” About her mother, about his actions, about false protection, and broken, whittled promises.
Passwords; attempted last year to no avail on their unwinding ends – unnecessary when they’d promised to open apertures every damned time there was a knock. “You may decide,” a low whisper, signifying he’d already done enough damage, his plans deemed worthless and all the more devastating.
But he didn’t want to do this again – year after year, facing the possibility of his loved ones sinking into nothing, into desecration, into disaster. Amalia dying. Kiada failing. Rexanna perishing. Enough was enough, and while the Sword could withstand the world crashing down around him, he couldn’t bear to watch those he cherished succumb to the same.
Then she was there, in his essence, in his presence, and it might’ve been the only thing holding him together. His brow met hers, his tired eyes closed, and he choked back another sob threatening to unravel, undo, unfurl everything he kept tied, tethered, knotted, and noosed. Steadying breaths layered in his chest, leaning into her entity, maintaining the barest semblance of composure beside stars and cosmos, and not deserving any of it.
The beast didn’t let go as she curled into his side; otherwise he’d sink, deeper and deeper, beyond stones and floors, down into catacombs and tombs, where he belonged. He listened, apt to do for an eternity (and what he should’ve done all along), to the confidence in her tone, to the faith instilled, to the assurance he no longer held.
Free them all. Each and every soul.
“Okay,” too tired to argue, too tired to figure out how it would even occur, too tired to pierce and piece it together – if it was another mission doomed to fail, if everything they did or committed themselves towards even mattered. Another sinking feeling flickered through his chest, and he thought to lean forward again, to hide, to contort and dissolve. “I have to tell Kiada.” About her mother, about his actions, about false protection, and broken, whittled promises.
what use have we for feeble hymns of wasted faith;
for sordid songs of glory?
DEIMOS
