DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
A return to reality beyond plagues and torments merely seemed to mean the latter haunted in different forms. While the delirium and aches had faded, the scrape, the bite, the torrent of everything else returned in full force – a grind to his skull, to the emotions searing against his soul, to the embedded figments of veracity stringing him up like a noose. Perhaps the sickness had been a balm in some way, because within its grasp he hadn’t sunk into complete and utter despair (from what he could recall – though those moments laying out along the tundra, and waiting to fade into nothing was a new low). In its hold he hadn’t fallen apart. In its clenching, gnawing vices, he could escape.
And now they marched across the Sea of Glass, where seasons prior he’d flown with family and friends and loved ones and explored. The Sword wondered if every new step was going to be defined by an old one, poignantly traipsing over those good, awe-inspiring seconds with the finality of what would come after. Death. Abandonment. And then nothing. Could he run? Could he hide? Would it matter, at all, in the end? If everything he’d ever accomplished, ever wanted, ever craved, had been broken apart and torn asunder? Or had he simply lived too many lives, too many miseries, and was tired of facing them head on?
Loren led, and he followed, head sometimes hanging low and weary, Zuriel tucked against his side. His movements weren’t labored, but certainly didn’t carry the primordial, savage ministrations, the quiet, steady confidence normally exuded and bound within his strides. The sickness had torn against senses and beleaguered his strong, mighty form, and while he’d always have enough to protect himself, the notions it had crept upon him, gnashed its teeth, tore into his frame, were evident.
Fire might’ve been a comfort then, an element he cherished; had it not been another speculation of Kiada, of everything coming together in loss. His eyes lifted to stare, to inspect, to scrutinize, to memorize in case another sojourn was required – only pinpointing back to the lion as the question was poised. A lie scorched its way behind his teeth: I am fine, but it wouldn’t have benefitted anyone. They both would’ve known, would’ve understood, the depths and fathoms of the fabrication. “Not well,” came across instead, a low rumble through his chest, and he strived to breathe in a deep inhalation, as if it would save him from a threat, from the grief, overwhelming, overbearing his fortitude. “You?”
Then they came upon a cave, and he could permit a distraction – walls glittering, a sheen of sharpened hues, and he tread closer, but touched nothing. “Is this where you all ended up?” He wasn’t certain; thoughts blistering towards Kiada, about lava flows and ill-fated flights, but didn’t see any of the magma that had taken her.
And now they marched across the Sea of Glass, where seasons prior he’d flown with family and friends and loved ones and explored. The Sword wondered if every new step was going to be defined by an old one, poignantly traipsing over those good, awe-inspiring seconds with the finality of what would come after. Death. Abandonment. And then nothing. Could he run? Could he hide? Would it matter, at all, in the end? If everything he’d ever accomplished, ever wanted, ever craved, had been broken apart and torn asunder? Or had he simply lived too many lives, too many miseries, and was tired of facing them head on?
Loren led, and he followed, head sometimes hanging low and weary, Zuriel tucked against his side. His movements weren’t labored, but certainly didn’t carry the primordial, savage ministrations, the quiet, steady confidence normally exuded and bound within his strides. The sickness had torn against senses and beleaguered his strong, mighty form, and while he’d always have enough to protect himself, the notions it had crept upon him, gnashed its teeth, tore into his frame, were evident.
Fire might’ve been a comfort then, an element he cherished; had it not been another speculation of Kiada, of everything coming together in loss. His eyes lifted to stare, to inspect, to scrutinize, to memorize in case another sojourn was required – only pinpointing back to the lion as the question was poised. A lie scorched its way behind his teeth: I am fine, but it wouldn’t have benefitted anyone. They both would’ve known, would’ve understood, the depths and fathoms of the fabrication. “Not well,” came across instead, a low rumble through his chest, and he strived to breathe in a deep inhalation, as if it would save him from a threat, from the grief, overwhelming, overbearing his fortitude. “You?”
Then they came upon a cave, and he could permit a distraction – walls glittering, a sheen of sharpened hues, and he tread closer, but touched nothing. “Is this where you all ended up?” He wasn’t certain; thoughts blistering towards Kiada, about lava flows and ill-fated flights, but didn’t see any of the magma that had taken her.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
