DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
The monolith had dreaded this conversation from the moment reality had struck – even in the depths of the contentment, the elation, the shock, and surprise that late autumn’s alterations had struck and stuck upon them. Her resurrection had been everything, and for a few feral instances he hadn’t looked any deeper. But it pooled and pulled apart now, clambering on the fringes of his backbone like a knotted noose, threatening to grapple and tether, to suffocate and disarm, to leave him back in the throngs of avoidance. Detachment had been so much easier – the indifferent king on his summits – and each choice tasted like ash and soot, like embers and knives sharpened on their edges.
And she accepted the boundary he’d set – for he wouldn’t have another assemblage like Sunjata, but the rest of it seemed bound to coil and contort in his chest.
She didn’t worry about him (no one did). He could handle himself (except when he couldn’t and he was dying and fading and waiting for everything to destroy him).
And maybe in between the lines the truth resided all the clearer, into every angle he’d ever believed about himself: you don’t matter. So he pushed it way, way, way down into the canals of his withering heart and tried to scrape it off, because the Harpy hadn’t said that, and he’d already set himself up for a fall. But he didn’t hide, didn’t shirk, didn’t preside into crumbling into pieces or dust, steadied his frame with a breath, wondered if there was something more he was supposed to be doing for her.
Kiada wouldn’t allow herself to be hidden or tucked away, and he wouldn’t deign to ask that of her. She was strong, determined, and tenacious, and to even ask in question (do you want me to do something) could possibly only dig the wounds in deeper.
“I have always sided with the Old Gods,” came the blunt end of it; piercing eyes searching hers. Deimos held nothing against the Ascended, save for a few who went perilously far – they’d made their choices, just as he had when he’d Attuned. Just as Kiada once followed another herald. Just as death left them with fewer and fewer options. So he sighed once more, permitting her to see, to hear, the uncertainty, the weight of too many things ricocheting through the cracks. “I do not know what else to do. I worry about you.” Not as an insult; but from fatherly bonds, permitted to foster again and again. “I worry about a lot of people.”
And she accepted the boundary he’d set – for he wouldn’t have another assemblage like Sunjata, but the rest of it seemed bound to coil and contort in his chest.
She didn’t worry about him (no one did). He could handle himself (except when he couldn’t and he was dying and fading and waiting for everything to destroy him).
And maybe in between the lines the truth resided all the clearer, into every angle he’d ever believed about himself: you don’t matter. So he pushed it way, way, way down into the canals of his withering heart and tried to scrape it off, because the Harpy hadn’t said that, and he’d already set himself up for a fall. But he didn’t hide, didn’t shirk, didn’t preside into crumbling into pieces or dust, steadied his frame with a breath, wondered if there was something more he was supposed to be doing for her.
Kiada wouldn’t allow herself to be hidden or tucked away, and he wouldn’t deign to ask that of her. She was strong, determined, and tenacious, and to even ask in question (do you want me to do something) could possibly only dig the wounds in deeper.
“I have always sided with the Old Gods,” came the blunt end of it; piercing eyes searching hers. Deimos held nothing against the Ascended, save for a few who went perilously far – they’d made their choices, just as he had when he’d Attuned. Just as Kiada once followed another herald. Just as death left them with fewer and fewer options. So he sighed once more, permitting her to see, to hear, the uncertainty, the weight of too many things ricocheting through the cracks. “I do not know what else to do. I worry about you.” Not as an insult; but from fatherly bonds, permitted to foster again and again. “I worry about a lot of people.”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
