DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Blunt overtures followed, on the presumption, on the scalding of rancor, errors, and visible faults. “Correct.” He hadn’t intended for Rexanna to be desecrated in its midst, the opposite of the emblem it was supposed to have symbolized. Where he’d pledged protection, it’d unleashed demolition, but only due to his own ignorance. The door had been molded into an armament of his naivete, shielding, guarding, and deluding himself into believing it could’ve been so simplistic. All he’d ever wanted to do was shelter them from the storm of demons and infidels; what they’d received in return was a maelstrom for his stupidity. He should’ve known. He should’ve calculated more. He should’ve devised this route. He should’ve seen it coming.
Those flaws would etch their way into his bones for an eternity – and while time might erase some of the wounds, the scars were still there, cut, embedded, carved.
The Sword could feel her eyes on him, the passing of some scrutiny, some judgement, and he said nothing. Were he in her place, looking over a fool, he would’ve done the same. His jaw clenched and eyes went down to the ground, feeling every inch the cretin, the idiot.
Her question about the door sparked the cataclysm of conversation he’d already had with Safrin. “It is gone.” Not necessarily a lie, tucked away and hidden with the herald, out of anyone’s clutches for the moment – it’d already done enough damage. Then, because of notions and wiles, his stare still upon the ground, he inquired, a shrug to his shoulders. “What would you have done with it?”
Those flaws would etch their way into his bones for an eternity – and while time might erase some of the wounds, the scars were still there, cut, embedded, carved.
The Sword could feel her eyes on him, the passing of some scrutiny, some judgement, and he said nothing. Were he in her place, looking over a fool, he would’ve done the same. His jaw clenched and eyes went down to the ground, feeling every inch the cretin, the idiot.
Her question about the door sparked the cataclysm of conversation he’d already had with Safrin. “It is gone.” Not necessarily a lie, tucked away and hidden with the herald, out of anyone’s clutches for the moment – it’d already done enough damage. Then, because of notions and wiles, his stare still upon the ground, he inquired, a shrug to his shoulders. “What would you have done with it?”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
