DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Changes from within, like it was means of infiltration instead of necessity. Like she had any say in a system of individuals meant for the same manifestations, amidst the folds of Wessex and all her beliefs. And maybe Kiada could morph, could alter, could ensure there were revisions and modifications, but gods, the damage had already been done. And now it tore in his chest, beating and flaring, swift and anxious, because he could feel so many factions and moments and everything slipping away all over again. Could an individual be grateful for a goddess, and hate her all at once? Was that where he loomed now, glad and gratified that Kiada had been granted another opportunity, because she hadn’t been done, but loathing the way it burned into them now?
These weren’t the foundations they’d built. These weren’t the mountains they’d crossed. These weren’t the summits they recalled.
Instead it was heartbreak and disarray, eroding, toppling figures of might and menace, and he was losing every piece so rapidly that it scarcely seemed to matter how far he reached and how much he craved for just some part of the whole. “I know,” he whispered, the granules of his tears beginning to take their path down his cheeks, incapable of being hidden any longer. He could repeat it a thousand times, and it would echo in his mind, in his soul, in his entity, and still sizzle in the same frame, the same broken, frayed seams. Some days he wished he could be the Reaper once more – and not care, not care, not care, indifferent and walled and icy and apathetic as the world churned around him and he only fed it his flames, his ruthlessness.
Instead, now he could feel his hands shaking and bones aching, heart beating against his ribs and stifling his lungs as his brain searched desperately for something. But it was empty, hollow, and vast, a siege upon itself, where all his calculations, schemes, and plots didn’t matter. He couldn’t fix this one. He couldn’t reach out and stand in front of her, take the blows. He couldn’t shield her from a life she’d chosen, and everything that came with it. Maybe he’d never been able to, and reality merely pushed it that much further.
What good was he to any of them?
She didn’t leave – not yet – there at his side while he decayed, and Deimos instinctively reached out for her, tried to clutch and grasp and protect where he could, so she’d fit in the crook of his shoulder and neck and that would alleviate the torment. Where he could guard for a second longer as she whispered horrific things into the darkness. The Sword’s breaths constricted and contorted, shallow, sputtering, at her words, as his hand wrapped around her head and he pressed her further into his furs, into the emerald scarf she’d just given him, grasping until he thought he’d have nothing left. “And we are so glad you did. No one would deny it.” To want to live again, to be renewed, resurrected – just now inexplicably tied and tethered to a goddess on opposing sides. Her phrases clawed at him though, at the misery residing there, at the fracturing shards, at pathways taken and eroded. “You did not make it worse.” The Voice had. Offering to souls who craved second chances.
His voice cracked while he searched for sentiments, for ruminations, forgoing those notions of impending death. “We can keep training. We can-,” and he was lost. “I do not know.”
These weren’t the foundations they’d built. These weren’t the mountains they’d crossed. These weren’t the summits they recalled.
Instead it was heartbreak and disarray, eroding, toppling figures of might and menace, and he was losing every piece so rapidly that it scarcely seemed to matter how far he reached and how much he craved for just some part of the whole. “I know,” he whispered, the granules of his tears beginning to take their path down his cheeks, incapable of being hidden any longer. He could repeat it a thousand times, and it would echo in his mind, in his soul, in his entity, and still sizzle in the same frame, the same broken, frayed seams. Some days he wished he could be the Reaper once more – and not care, not care, not care, indifferent and walled and icy and apathetic as the world churned around him and he only fed it his flames, his ruthlessness.
Instead, now he could feel his hands shaking and bones aching, heart beating against his ribs and stifling his lungs as his brain searched desperately for something. But it was empty, hollow, and vast, a siege upon itself, where all his calculations, schemes, and plots didn’t matter. He couldn’t fix this one. He couldn’t reach out and stand in front of her, take the blows. He couldn’t shield her from a life she’d chosen, and everything that came with it. Maybe he’d never been able to, and reality merely pushed it that much further.
What good was he to any of them?
She didn’t leave – not yet – there at his side while he decayed, and Deimos instinctively reached out for her, tried to clutch and grasp and protect where he could, so she’d fit in the crook of his shoulder and neck and that would alleviate the torment. Where he could guard for a second longer as she whispered horrific things into the darkness. The Sword’s breaths constricted and contorted, shallow, sputtering, at her words, as his hand wrapped around her head and he pressed her further into his furs, into the emerald scarf she’d just given him, grasping until he thought he’d have nothing left. “And we are so glad you did. No one would deny it.” To want to live again, to be renewed, resurrected – just now inexplicably tied and tethered to a goddess on opposing sides. Her phrases clawed at him though, at the misery residing there, at the fracturing shards, at pathways taken and eroded. “You did not make it worse.” The Voice had. Offering to souls who craved second chances.
His voice cracked while he searched for sentiments, for ruminations, forgoing those notions of impending death. “We can keep training. We can-,” and he was lost. “I do not know.”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
