DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
So much for that opportunity.
Wessex had many, and still chose not to take it. Patterns in the complexities and arrangements. A consistency. Circumstances be damned, because the Wraith was always in the right, and everyone else in the wrong. No growth. Nothing but the same, tired old song.
Instead, she continued in her holier-than-thou, presumptuous nature, and he stopped listening entirely. It was still all about her. Still about the things she’d had to do. The one entire season of planning (which hinted at the scrambling, at the way things seemed cobbled together on last minute enterprises). Though, it did lead him to wonder how many others must have tried to plan, orchestrate, muster together something, before it was either alleviated, done in, or mauled over by whatever remained.
There were a thousand other things he could say, but he couldn’t be bothered anymore. Listening was not a skill she possessed, and clearly processing the information took a laborious amount of time; time better suited to conducting training for his own. It still somehow managed to circle right back to how the world felt about her. She couldn’t see it. She couldn’t hear it, even when coming from her own mouth, her own words, her own voice, her own thoughts. She might’ve been one of the most egocentric individuals he’d ever met.
He shook his head, ignoring her other shots, allowing them to pilfer off his armor, his iron, his resolve. The lightning in his palm dissipated – gone, vanquished, and forgotten – only to be replaced with the fire emblems searing along his veins. Maybe she would utilize them as she’d said. Maybe she wouldn’t. “We are done here,” he announced over the vestiges of her bellows and clamors for a false justice, passing over the note for Morgan (its containments now more poignant than ever), and the crystal. “Good luck.” Based on her deliberations, schemes, and reactions, they were going to need it.
{FIN}
Wessex had many, and still chose not to take it. Patterns in the complexities and arrangements. A consistency. Circumstances be damned, because the Wraith was always in the right, and everyone else in the wrong. No growth. Nothing but the same, tired old song.
Instead, she continued in her holier-than-thou, presumptuous nature, and he stopped listening entirely. It was still all about her. Still about the things she’d had to do. The one entire season of planning (which hinted at the scrambling, at the way things seemed cobbled together on last minute enterprises). Though, it did lead him to wonder how many others must have tried to plan, orchestrate, muster together something, before it was either alleviated, done in, or mauled over by whatever remained.
There were a thousand other things he could say, but he couldn’t be bothered anymore. Listening was not a skill she possessed, and clearly processing the information took a laborious amount of time; time better suited to conducting training for his own. It still somehow managed to circle right back to how the world felt about her. She couldn’t see it. She couldn’t hear it, even when coming from her own mouth, her own words, her own voice, her own thoughts. She might’ve been one of the most egocentric individuals he’d ever met.
He shook his head, ignoring her other shots, allowing them to pilfer off his armor, his iron, his resolve. The lightning in his palm dissipated – gone, vanquished, and forgotten – only to be replaced with the fire emblems searing along his veins. Maybe she would utilize them as she’d said. Maybe she wouldn’t. “We are done here,” he announced over the vestiges of her bellows and clamors for a false justice, passing over the note for Morgan (its containments now more poignant than ever), and the crystal. “Good luck.” Based on her deliberations, schemes, and reactions, they were going to need it.
{FIN}
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
