DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
More honesty, more raw, brutal veracity in the chokehold of this decaying void; and he’d seemingly been prepared for it. But by how much? Did he understand the degrees, the depths, of what he was longing to do? The cruelty, the knives, the nooses slipped around throats, tricking minds, playing games with memories, with abilities, until the torture was the only reality to face. “Did she tell you what LongNight was like?” Torment, physical agony, yearning for an entire week to be over, the night crawling into senses and oblivion, the void careening and screeching, nails and claws and screams through walls. “I am not certain if anyone is ever fully prepared.” Because he’d tried, year after year – and still, others died.
Some because of his plans.
They’d have to see what Ludo would permit, allow, before anything else. More seasons until another bountiful misery, locked within the hold of shelter, modest, minute sanctuary, and then sliding out into the hollowed hell; willingly volunteering to become tributes to the slaughter.
Would either of them be strong enough, when it came down to it?
And he could only nod at the last statement, because survival had come to mean so many different things – and he was afraid that he’d become a husk, a vessel, a machine once more, destined to roam the earth with nothing in his soul, except for the depraved Reaper beacons, the Sword lost and forgotten.
Some because of his plans.
They’d have to see what Ludo would permit, allow, before anything else. More seasons until another bountiful misery, locked within the hold of shelter, modest, minute sanctuary, and then sliding out into the hollowed hell; willingly volunteering to become tributes to the slaughter.
Would either of them be strong enough, when it came down to it?
And he could only nod at the last statement, because survival had come to mean so many different things – and he was afraid that he’d become a husk, a vessel, a machine once more, destined to roam the earth with nothing in his soul, except for the depraved Reaper beacons, the Sword lost and forgotten.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
