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 could be grateful for another life given, granted, to the Harpy. He could be content with the notion that there’d been more than just second chances, but did her revival erase all the other multitudes and actions the Voice had committed? The deaths? The sicknesses (that had effected both of them)? The monsters? How many innocents paid for her crimes? Would Kiada’s existence pull him across the gaping void, away from all the things and moments and parallels he’d placed himself within – to fight amongst the Ascended?
They both knew better. She had her truth already – he’d said it, and he’d say it again. He was an obstinate wall too, seditious and defiant, capable of digging his heels into every tenacious thought. “I do not want you dead.” Nor did Chulane, who was another outlier to this conversation. But the Sword wasn’t about to bring it up across dinner, where they strived to make something normal when everything around them began to draw apart.
Was there a way? Sunjata had tried, and it hadn’t worked, likely not in the way he’d hoped. Was there a chance for the Ascended to be changed, altered, away from their dependency on their goddess? Or was that all part of the plan, to have them so intertwined, so entangled, that they would do anything to defend her, because otherwise they wouldn’t survive? All the deities had their means of manipulation. He lowered his head and breathed, warm puffs of air circumventing around, breaking up the particles of darkness flooding in around them – the dusk haunting, looming, now, no longer a comfort. “We already know bargaining for a change does not sound feasible.” Or the price was too high, the alterations demanded upon both too great. And he wouldn’t ask it of her.
They both knew better. She had her truth already – he’d said it, and he’d say it again. He was an obstinate wall too, seditious and defiant, capable of digging his heels into every tenacious thought. “I do not want you dead.” Nor did Chulane, who was another outlier to this conversation. But the Sword wasn’t about to bring it up across dinner, where they strived to make something normal when everything around them began to draw apart.
Was there a way? Sunjata had tried, and it hadn’t worked, likely not in the way he’d hoped. Was there a chance for the Ascended to be changed, altered, away from their dependency on their goddess? Or was that all part of the plan, to have them so intertwined, so entangled, that they would do anything to defend her, because otherwise they wouldn’t survive? All the deities had their means of manipulation. He lowered his head and breathed, warm puffs of air circumventing around, breaking up the particles of darkness flooding in around them – the dusk haunting, looming, now, no longer a comfort. “We already know bargaining for a change does not sound feasible.” Or the price was too high, the alterations demanded upon both too great. And he wouldn’t ask it of her.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
