DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Moving forward on long strides, on pinnacles of precision, was a honed, welcome respite from the all-consuming cataclysms following, chasing him down. He could feel the bedlam, the menace, the anguish, rising along his heels, gnarled bones wrapping around shins and walls, threatening to tear them all down, rend them apart. If he merely continued onward, if he sought a goal, if he thought there was something beyond those clinging, clawing intervals, he’d have a chance of escaping, of thwarting, of not being damned and consigned.
But it was difficult, when everything was a reminder of those he’d cherished and loved, gone in the sanctity of months and moments – the sun, radiant like Rexanna, the flames in his heart, like cinders and embers of Kiada, the rolling terrain of ghosts ricocheting across his head, his brows, the shape of his motions. If he ceased, if he stopped, it would all come tumbling down around him again, agonizing, pulling along his heart until even that decrepit, nefarious entity was distorted beyond repair.
He couldn’t listen to Chulane’s sobs. He couldn’t bear the weight of those melancholies. He couldn’t hold his shoulders so rigidly, so tautly now, afraid if he bent or swayed he’d go toppling to the ground. It was a walk through portals instead, from the glacial expanse and back to the hollowed adornments, requiring no thought, no energy, no muscle save for the memory lodged in his mind –
And Chulane’s inquiry nearly made the Sword stop entirely.
He was going to be swallowed, devoured –
“Physically, yes.” Restraint in his words, as they sought to unravel, as his whole world yearned to come crashing down around him. When was it enough? When had he suffered enough? When did it end?
“She wanted space, so-,” He couldn’t finish the sentence, and he choked it back against his throat. Deimos had enough ways to culminate the phrase without voicing it out loud; each one sharper and more painful than the next. So I am alone again. So I am lost. So I do not know what to do.
Chulane would be free to fill in the gaps on his own – they’d arrived at the house. Familiar, clean on the outside, as if nothing was the matter, no worse for wear. Ready for the Harpy’s return, for maelstroms and feathers, for belligerence and mischief. He steeled himself, forged a breath, shifting his gaze to Chulane, before clasping the door knob, and twisting it as he always had, barging in as if she’d be there, waiting for them in the wings.
But it was difficult, when everything was a reminder of those he’d cherished and loved, gone in the sanctity of months and moments – the sun, radiant like Rexanna, the flames in his heart, like cinders and embers of Kiada, the rolling terrain of ghosts ricocheting across his head, his brows, the shape of his motions. If he ceased, if he stopped, it would all come tumbling down around him again, agonizing, pulling along his heart until even that decrepit, nefarious entity was distorted beyond repair.
He couldn’t listen to Chulane’s sobs. He couldn’t bear the weight of those melancholies. He couldn’t hold his shoulders so rigidly, so tautly now, afraid if he bent or swayed he’d go toppling to the ground. It was a walk through portals instead, from the glacial expanse and back to the hollowed adornments, requiring no thought, no energy, no muscle save for the memory lodged in his mind –
And Chulane’s inquiry nearly made the Sword stop entirely.
He was going to be swallowed, devoured –
“Physically, yes.” Restraint in his words, as they sought to unravel, as his whole world yearned to come crashing down around him. When was it enough? When had he suffered enough? When did it end?
“She wanted space, so-,” He couldn’t finish the sentence, and he choked it back against his throat. Deimos had enough ways to culminate the phrase without voicing it out loud; each one sharper and more painful than the next. So I am alone again. So I am lost. So I do not know what to do.
Chulane would be free to fill in the gaps on his own – they’d arrived at the house. Familiar, clean on the outside, as if nothing was the matter, no worse for wear. Ready for the Harpy’s return, for maelstroms and feathers, for belligerence and mischief. He steeled himself, forged a breath, shifting his gaze to Chulane, before clasping the door knob, and twisting it as he always had, barging in as if she’d be there, waiting for them in the wings.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
