CHULANE
Can you hear it echoing?
Take my hand
Take my hand
Chulane nodded - he was aware of the death, and perhaps he should've appreciated it more when she'd told him then, just how much death and destruction she'd experienced here, just how prevalent loss was in a world where deities threw their power around with little regard for the mortalness of those around them. Perhaps, if he'd paid more attention then, he could've been more prepared, could've been stronger, better, able to go with her, to make a difference--
But he hadn't taken heed, hadn't gotten strong enough, hadn't--
Another bleat from Auni, and he was back to the present moment, back to blinking the tears from his eyes, back to swallowing the waves of grief as they tried to pull him under. He'd apologised, and Deimos pointed out the fault did not lie with him - it wasn't what he was apologising for, but he did not correct the man, did not wish to stir the ire of a broken, grieving Sword when he himself was also broken, also barely holding it together.
He could relate, gods, couldn't he relate? His world had been changed too, ripped away from him, irrevocably shifted into something new, outside of his choice or control - but Deimos had some control, some choice; Amalia was not dead (but he could understand how it felt the same), and he wanted to cling to some hope that they might come back together again, that this was merely a temporary ripple in the grand scheme of things.
"You have me," he offered, knowing it wasn't what the Sword wanted or needed, knowing it was entirely insufficient in the face of the loss he had suffered on all fronts. "You… you can do this, Deimos. You can get there." Wherever, whatever 'there' was, Chulane had confidence in the man, confidence he couldn't bring himself to feel about himself.
But he hadn't taken heed, hadn't gotten strong enough, hadn't--
Another bleat from Auni, and he was back to the present moment, back to blinking the tears from his eyes, back to swallowing the waves of grief as they tried to pull him under. He'd apologised, and Deimos pointed out the fault did not lie with him - it wasn't what he was apologising for, but he did not correct the man, did not wish to stir the ire of a broken, grieving Sword when he himself was also broken, also barely holding it together.
He could relate, gods, couldn't he relate? His world had been changed too, ripped away from him, irrevocably shifted into something new, outside of his choice or control - but Deimos had some control, some choice; Amalia was not dead (but he could understand how it felt the same), and he wanted to cling to some hope that they might come back together again, that this was merely a temporary ripple in the grand scheme of things.
"You have me," he offered, knowing it wasn't what the Sword wanted or needed, knowing it was entirely insufficient in the face of the loss he had suffered on all fronts. "You… you can do this, Deimos. You can get there." Wherever, whatever 'there' was, Chulane had confidence in the man, confidence he couldn't bring himself to feel about himself.
All the stars we steal from the nightsky
Will never be enough
Will never be enough
