i wonder which will get you killed faster - your loyalty
Knives back, settled back along his belt of weaponry, he tilted his head at the sound of her laughter. At things missed and regaled once, at layers and lacquers of bittersweet chimes echoing and bounding. Gone, but never forgotten, because he seemed damned and doomed to remember the sight and sounds of his ghosts for eternities, for lives, until they pressed into the back of his mind, and there was no escape. Nothing until he let them go – and he’d been ready, he’d tried, to place her away, back into the nefarious chambers of his heart, where everything had been iced over and frozen. Where it’d been warped and ravaged, savaged, mislaid, unsettled, forgotten. Only to have her renewed, come again.
He snorted at her joy, the wry grin still there, embellished, not tarnished, not wasted, not melancholic. It’d been burdened by too many things, weighed down in the heavy reaches of grief and anguish, of what it meant to simply not matter. So maybe the monolith was fortunate to be permitted, to be allowed, to love and cherish the people he’d lost. Maybe he was lucky to have had them at all.
And to have some again.
She took his challenge and he followed beneath the canopy of the evening – the stars reaching overhead, gazing at them instinctively, inherently, before remembering, and then casting his gaze elsewhere. While she stretched, he rolled up his sleeves, hands going toward the chalk they’d used for a better grasp – arching his brow, staring at the wall’s denizens. He’d already completed its cycle several times over, enjoyed the practice and prestige, the use of muscles throughout his back, arms, the way it orchestrated other mannerisms besides the steadiness of a familiar blade.
So, to instigate, to agitate, to rankle in those mirror images of amusement and irritation, the beast followed, tracing over foundations he knew well – calloused palms reaching, pulling, feet sliding into their practiced derision, until he was side by side by the Harpy; snickering, smirking.
He snorted at her joy, the wry grin still there, embellished, not tarnished, not wasted, not melancholic. It’d been burdened by too many things, weighed down in the heavy reaches of grief and anguish, of what it meant to simply not matter. So maybe the monolith was fortunate to be permitted, to be allowed, to love and cherish the people he’d lost. Maybe he was lucky to have had them at all.
And to have some again.
She took his challenge and he followed beneath the canopy of the evening – the stars reaching overhead, gazing at them instinctively, inherently, before remembering, and then casting his gaze elsewhere. While she stretched, he rolled up his sleeves, hands going toward the chalk they’d used for a better grasp – arching his brow, staring at the wall’s denizens. He’d already completed its cycle several times over, enjoyed the practice and prestige, the use of muscles throughout his back, arms, the way it orchestrated other mannerisms besides the steadiness of a familiar blade.
So, to instigate, to agitate, to rankle in those mirror images of amusement and irritation, the beast followed, tracing over foundations he knew well – calloused palms reaching, pulling, feet sliding into their practiced derision, until he was side by side by the Harpy; snickering, smirking.
or your stubbornness?
DEIMOS
