DEIMOS
ache first, but then let the cuts close
spit out the blood
spit out the blood
He hadn’t carefully tended to these wounds. Simple stitches, then pretending as if they weren’t there, out of sight, out of mind. Until something else chafed and abraded, until something else came along that called to his ghosts, and he could feel them fraying, unraveling again. Easy for him to love, and to not, in equal, bewildering measures – to give and give and give until he was empty and withdrawn and the rest of the sovereign was sated. It coiled back and forth over him now, reminded him of surfaces threatening to drown, threatening to choke, of wraiths and figments portrayed in deepening sickness, in the throes of his agonized mind. Movement, onward and onward, trying to leave everything painful and devastating behind –
But it never worked.
And the torment was beyond surface level, down in the crags of once-rotted and decayed, blackened and Stygian heart, and he’d tried, so desperately, desperately hard, to keep the vessels and chambers together. The Sword extended his selflessness into worlds and expected nothing in return, and that was nearly exactly what he received.
The words were hollowed out echoes and vestiges of his experiences. They said naught of the agony, of the way they cut and slashed, ripped and tore, left brutal scars across his ribs and lungs and soul. He could feel her closing in though, and there was a portion of him that wanted to veer away. That didn’t want to be a burden. That didn’t want to put one more thing on her shoulders too, even if that was just his worn and tired head. “But it still hurts,” he whispered in response. No control, no supremacy, no dominance; almost like an onlooker, watching as the wakes he’d so carefully built, he’d cherished and stoked, fell apart around him. Not stone, but salt or sand, crumbling the moment the air or earth stirred.
“I know.” And he still did it – still placed everything there on his spine and waiting for the erosion, while everyone else maneuvered away. Even in his anger, in his rage, he’d still taken on the Warden position so Morgan could go fight in the Grounds. Even in his deluded sickness, he’d crawled his way towards the Climb, searching for a cure. The Sword said nothing of how close she’d come to truly losing him again – perishing out in the snow. Of how that might’ve been a comfort, after everything.
He choked back a multitude of things, his eyes narrowing, then closing, as he took hold of another breath with a chisel, with an ax, with a blade. Then suddenly, his head was in the crook of her shoulder, and the expanse of comfort he hadn’t had in so long was immense too. The monolith could feel the cracks coming in, could feel the entanglements, the promises, he’d try to hold onto but presume would never take place.
Wasn’t that something this world had taught him? That vows were merely meant to be broken?
“If I rest, it all comes back,” he muffled into furs and hoods. Why he wandered forward, why he kept walking so he didn’t topple to the ground, why he evaded the snares for as long as possible. And then he shook his head, arms still trapped down by his side, because if he reached for her again he might completely fall apart at the seams and she didn’t need this agonizing, disheartening wake. “But this world has made me realize I do not matter.”
But it never worked.
And the torment was beyond surface level, down in the crags of once-rotted and decayed, blackened and Stygian heart, and he’d tried, so desperately, desperately hard, to keep the vessels and chambers together. The Sword extended his selflessness into worlds and expected nothing in return, and that was nearly exactly what he received.
The words were hollowed out echoes and vestiges of his experiences. They said naught of the agony, of the way they cut and slashed, ripped and tore, left brutal scars across his ribs and lungs and soul. He could feel her closing in though, and there was a portion of him that wanted to veer away. That didn’t want to be a burden. That didn’t want to put one more thing on her shoulders too, even if that was just his worn and tired head. “But it still hurts,” he whispered in response. No control, no supremacy, no dominance; almost like an onlooker, watching as the wakes he’d so carefully built, he’d cherished and stoked, fell apart around him. Not stone, but salt or sand, crumbling the moment the air or earth stirred.
“I know.” And he still did it – still placed everything there on his spine and waiting for the erosion, while everyone else maneuvered away. Even in his anger, in his rage, he’d still taken on the Warden position so Morgan could go fight in the Grounds. Even in his deluded sickness, he’d crawled his way towards the Climb, searching for a cure. The Sword said nothing of how close she’d come to truly losing him again – perishing out in the snow. Of how that might’ve been a comfort, after everything.
He choked back a multitude of things, his eyes narrowing, then closing, as he took hold of another breath with a chisel, with an ax, with a blade. Then suddenly, his head was in the crook of her shoulder, and the expanse of comfort he hadn’t had in so long was immense too. The monolith could feel the cracks coming in, could feel the entanglements, the promises, he’d try to hold onto but presume would never take place.
Wasn’t that something this world had taught him? That vows were merely meant to be broken?
“If I rest, it all comes back,” he muffled into furs and hoods. Why he wandered forward, why he kept walking so he didn’t topple to the ground, why he evaded the snares for as long as possible. And then he shook his head, arms still trapped down by his side, because if he reached for her again he might completely fall apart at the seams and she didn’t need this agonizing, disheartening wake. “But this world has made me realize I do not matter.”
watch your body pull itself back together
then let your soul do the same
then let your soul do the same
