DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
He did somehow manage to conjure a habit of breaking apart all amusements; but things needed to be said, needed to be unfurled, needed to be unraveled. Deimos had never yearned to follow tides of stupidity and iniquity; watching from others’ experiences, gauging from glances of another, striving to orchestrate those less damaging and askew. The Sword had eternally been forthright, blunt, and honest with the Harpy – since the Basin, since Caido, since lives resurrected and emboldened back into different plains and surfaces. And they could smile and agree with one another, laugh until the morning rose, but eventually, there would be lines drawn, and no love lost, but split, somewhere in the ties and tethers of chosen paths.
His gaze followed her movements; and though things were more hidden now without bonds of attunement to absorb and beckon and alter, Deimos knew her well enough. The silence within the trepidation loomed, and he loosened a subtle sigh. “She did not give me an answer.” The shrug thereafter loosened the binding of his shoulders again, though the rest of him remained taut and rigid again, the unyielding placement of his spine, the justifications in his backbone. “Though she told me things I needed to hear.” Not to carry every agonizing weight. Not to hold onto grief. Not to become paralyzed with his ghosts (especially those who would never want him to).
Then the depth of his puncturing stare pierced right to her, for he wanted to make his sentiments about similar matters known, understood. “If things become…grim,” War; when it comes to war, tucked behind his teeth, and maybe she’d comprehend it, or maybe he’d have to stop tossing out those pebbles and give her the boulders – “I do not want you to ever sacrifice any part of yourself to save me.” No bargains struck with goddesses. No furtive means to an end that might not hold anything together anyway. “I am not worth that.”
His gaze followed her movements; and though things were more hidden now without bonds of attunement to absorb and beckon and alter, Deimos knew her well enough. The silence within the trepidation loomed, and he loosened a subtle sigh. “She did not give me an answer.” The shrug thereafter loosened the binding of his shoulders again, though the rest of him remained taut and rigid again, the unyielding placement of his spine, the justifications in his backbone. “Though she told me things I needed to hear.” Not to carry every agonizing weight. Not to hold onto grief. Not to become paralyzed with his ghosts (especially those who would never want him to).
Then the depth of his puncturing stare pierced right to her, for he wanted to make his sentiments about similar matters known, understood. “If things become…grim,” War; when it comes to war, tucked behind his teeth, and maybe she’d comprehend it, or maybe he’d have to stop tossing out those pebbles and give her the boulders – “I do not want you to ever sacrifice any part of yourself to save me.” No bargains struck with goddesses. No furtive means to an end that might not hold anything together anyway. “I am not worth that.”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
