DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Astra received a scratch on the head for her attempts to comfort, and Zuriel snorted somewhere close behind. They merely tread their way further, and it was nearly disappointing to feel the apprehension not dissipating; for a boy who’d once laughed with delight at his father’s fiery calamities and conflagrations, designs burnt and scorched into the air, and rapacious, seething edges he could call his own. But it was ash, molten rock, flames upon flames and heat he had no true control over, curling and carving into the land, into the void, and where the Harpy had succumbed. Perhaps not in this particular venue, but the symbolism, the rites, the barrage was there, all the same.
And it would not leave his mind; distorting back to where he’d previously refused. Maybe it was an aftermath of the sickness, to be drawn straight into delirium again, to be concocted and distracted, to be meddlesome and defiant to his own wellbeing. “You were there, when Kiada –“ he stopped himself, gnashing his jaw tightly together; no accusations, no hidden meanings, just attempting to comprehend, to understand, more than what he’d already been told.
Because he’d always known her to be fire; and not to fall victim to it.
And it would not leave his mind; distorting back to where he’d previously refused. Maybe it was an aftermath of the sickness, to be drawn straight into delirium again, to be concocted and distracted, to be meddlesome and defiant to his own wellbeing. “You were there, when Kiada –“ he stopped himself, gnashing his jaw tightly together; no accusations, no hidden meanings, just attempting to comprehend, to understand, more than what he’d already been told.
Because he’d always known her to be fire; and not to fall victim to it.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
