DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
He couldn’t look up – not at the voices surrounding the sanctuary, not at the glances thrown his way, not at the void threatening to dissolve him within the parlor. His physical existence felt tied directly into his chair and feet on the floor, head hanging, every modicum of control keeping the re-stitched seams together. Feral breaths and savage inhales ensured he remained upright, but his clenched jaw, his eyes pinpointed on stones, on anything but the procession, the people, never loosened. Rigid, taut, expressionless, hiding, hiding, hiding, and the reticence, the recherche, only worsened as Bastien began speaking. It hollowed, then echoed, reverberated, drumming against his skull; of her loyalty and bravery, of determination and strength, of raw perseverance in the face of too many trials and tribulations. Anchors, ties, and then naught but oblivion –
His fingers clenched back into his palm, fighting himself. Useless and ineffective, incapable of speaking at all, he made no point to move, frozen like the mountains they’d roamed and plotted within. Bastien apparently hit his limit as well, if the sounds and movements indicated anything; then Kiada had it in stride. And thereafter? Silence? Even he knew that couldn’t be justified – and while he couldn’t put his head back up, couldn’t look at any of them, couldn’t bear the brunt of all this damned anguish, he could strive for something beyond stunned faces and the quiet. Rexanna deserved better than that. His voice ricocheted upon the floor, deep and low, not yearning to take away from the moments at hand. “Does anyone have a story to share?” How she’d made an impact? What she’d accomplished? How she’d assisted? Memories – instead of the earth-shattering abyss? They wouldn't have to rise or stand there; perhaps a collective of tales and triumphs, instances away from the sorrow.
His fingers clenched back into his palm, fighting himself. Useless and ineffective, incapable of speaking at all, he made no point to move, frozen like the mountains they’d roamed and plotted within. Bastien apparently hit his limit as well, if the sounds and movements indicated anything; then Kiada had it in stride. And thereafter? Silence? Even he knew that couldn’t be justified – and while he couldn’t put his head back up, couldn’t look at any of them, couldn’t bear the brunt of all this damned anguish, he could strive for something beyond stunned faces and the quiet. Rexanna deserved better than that. His voice ricocheted upon the floor, deep and low, not yearning to take away from the moments at hand. “Does anyone have a story to share?” How she’d made an impact? What she’d accomplished? How she’d assisted? Memories – instead of the earth-shattering abyss? They wouldn't have to rise or stand there; perhaps a collective of tales and triumphs, instances away from the sorrow.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
