DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
So Kiada hadn’t left out that secret, and in some part the Sword was proud of her, wherever her soul might be – that she drew honesty into the fathoms of these new tidings, for however long it had tragically lasted. Nothing left out, bones bleached, a luxere possessed, a world tossed and turned over again and again. “Yes. I believe he accidentally killed another. Isla.” Eventually, the same calamity would come full circle – the soul of the healer put into a unicorn, and then that unicorn rendered gone. Always somehow leading into death and demolition; and gods, he was so damn tired of it.
For a distraction, one hand went to Auni; habitual, routine, to scratch at the luxere’s skull, around the antlers, while the subject grated back to him. The apologies made him grate, made him scowl, made him want to bury his head, his form, straight back into hell, where it no longer hurt. Where it no longer pulsed, madly, wildly, in extremes. “It is not your fault.” Nor Chulane’s burden to bear, his alone across shoulders again, pressing down on their makeshift nooses until it ultimately, finally, strangled him whole. He shrugged, half in agreement, half in confusion, remaining along the unknown.
What do you want? A question she’d once asked him so many times before, and it’d only ever been her - just to know what it was like to be cherished and loved and craved. He blinked away the sorrows, backing away from Auni, marching around the table, staring at walls, not seeing them for what they were – not at the moment. “I do not know.” Too fresh, too raw, too maddening; he shook his head, wondered what it would be like to not feel. To not care. “I feel like the earth has been pulled out from under me.” Every season, another gone and removed, until all the familial units, all the roots he’d had in place, had been torn and disassembled, shorn in a sea of tempests, grief, and anguish. “Over and over again. I do not have many of my own left anymore.” Save for Hotaru; and he could only imagine how she must’ve been feeling.
For a distraction, one hand went to Auni; habitual, routine, to scratch at the luxere’s skull, around the antlers, while the subject grated back to him. The apologies made him grate, made him scowl, made him want to bury his head, his form, straight back into hell, where it no longer hurt. Where it no longer pulsed, madly, wildly, in extremes. “It is not your fault.” Nor Chulane’s burden to bear, his alone across shoulders again, pressing down on their makeshift nooses until it ultimately, finally, strangled him whole. He shrugged, half in agreement, half in confusion, remaining along the unknown.
What do you want? A question she’d once asked him so many times before, and it’d only ever been her - just to know what it was like to be cherished and loved and craved. He blinked away the sorrows, backing away from Auni, marching around the table, staring at walls, not seeing them for what they were – not at the moment. “I do not know.” Too fresh, too raw, too maddening; he shook his head, wondered what it would be like to not feel. To not care. “I feel like the earth has been pulled out from under me.” Every season, another gone and removed, until all the familial units, all the roots he’d had in place, had been torn and disassembled, shorn in a sea of tempests, grief, and anguish. “Over and over again. I do not have many of my own left anymore.” Save for Hotaru; and he could only imagine how she must’ve been feeling.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
