i wonder which will get you killed faster - your loyalty
Away, away, away, from the lights, from the main square, tucked amongst the shadows, and steering towards the wall, the Sword carried the two lanterns in his hands, placing them along the stony surface. Alone for those few lasting seconds, where he could be perilously lost without them again, for a moment, for an instant, without the weight of anything but their memories. He’d done it so many times that it was seemingly habitual, normal, to stare upon the gilded surfaces or the fiery emblems, wondering if there’d be a way to bring them back. To have them again. To dwell for an eternity in the past, to coax it back to the present, to live in their whims and caprices and beholden occurrences – to cherish the things now fleeting, absent, and gone. Too late, the winds always whistled. Too late, the ice contorted in his veins. Too late, the world rattled beneath him, spinning until he could no longer stand, until he didn’t know his bearings, until his fortress broke down in splinters, ash, and bone.
But this would be it. The last time – until he saw them in his dreams or met them at Mort’s realm. It was as much a promise to himself as it’d been to Rexanna – to stop drifting in with his wraiths and phantoms, to leave them behind, to maneuver forward without the ghostly ties and tethers.
The quiet whisper, the hushed rumble, started in his throat and ached, pierced, punctured, out into the abyss. “I miss you,” more than he could say, more than he could bear, more than he could ever hope to embody. “I love you,” more than he had ever told them before, and it always felt like it wasn’t enough, some wretched, unholy thing wrenched from his chest. “I will see you again.” A conviction he’d uphold – clenching his jaw, bearing his fangs, until the damned end of his days. “You will always be here.” And he pointed at his heart, unholy and nefarious, withered and decayed as it was, bending his head down as his eyes closed and the pain curled within, blasted and bleeding and monumental.
And he couldn’t live for these ghosts, couldn’t glance backwards for every second of every day, wishing and wanting and yearning for pieces of their flames and wit, of their peace and comfort. He couldn’t have Kiada’s menacing grin again, laugh and join in on their stupefying antics, in the ease of her embers. He couldn’t have Rexanna’s unwinding ease or adaptability, the way she altered and morphed, the clever smirk, the spark of daggers under all those layers. But maybe, maybe, the Sword could become better, could make them proud, could do something other than wallow in his grief.
He could say goodbye. He could honor them in those deciding moments; in taking, in growing, in holding his head high, instead of falling apart.
And his calloused palms took hold of their perfected surfaces, in their wakes of stories and tales, in their power, prestige, and strength – walking down the leagues of shadows, tending to his assurances and vows.
{FIN <3}
But this would be it. The last time – until he saw them in his dreams or met them at Mort’s realm. It was as much a promise to himself as it’d been to Rexanna – to stop drifting in with his wraiths and phantoms, to leave them behind, to maneuver forward without the ghostly ties and tethers.
The quiet whisper, the hushed rumble, started in his throat and ached, pierced, punctured, out into the abyss. “I miss you,” more than he could say, more than he could bear, more than he could ever hope to embody. “I love you,” more than he had ever told them before, and it always felt like it wasn’t enough, some wretched, unholy thing wrenched from his chest. “I will see you again.” A conviction he’d uphold – clenching his jaw, bearing his fangs, until the damned end of his days. “You will always be here.” And he pointed at his heart, unholy and nefarious, withered and decayed as it was, bending his head down as his eyes closed and the pain curled within, blasted and bleeding and monumental.
And he couldn’t live for these ghosts, couldn’t glance backwards for every second of every day, wishing and wanting and yearning for pieces of their flames and wit, of their peace and comfort. He couldn’t have Kiada’s menacing grin again, laugh and join in on their stupefying antics, in the ease of her embers. He couldn’t have Rexanna’s unwinding ease or adaptability, the way she altered and morphed, the clever smirk, the spark of daggers under all those layers. But maybe, maybe, the Sword could become better, could make them proud, could do something other than wallow in his grief.
He could say goodbye. He could honor them in those deciding moments; in taking, in growing, in holding his head high, instead of falling apart.
And his calloused palms took hold of their perfected surfaces, in their wakes of stories and tales, in their power, prestige, and strength – walking down the leagues of shadows, tending to his assurances and vows.
{FIN <3}
or your stubbornness?
DEIMOS
