DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Wrong on both accounts; because the tears were mired in sorrow and the knowledge of loss. Because his life was synonymous with erosion and demise, and he’d already gone through this once – had to listen as the words ricocheted through his head that she was dead. Perished. And the implication that it was all going to cycle back through and there were only miniscule measures he could compile, he could strive for, tore and lanced, lacerated and disassembled, against his beating, aching heart. It felt like his fault, for not being enough, and the age-old wounds and stitching were coming apart, and things like faith, like hope, felt stupefying and useless. Not meant for here, for now, and he could only yield to the pressure burning behind his eyes, to the dangerous, treacherous way the world worked.
Nor was he a statue at all, not any longer; bending into those emotions he always kept so carefully hidden, controlled, contorted, reeling in their factions and bindings like a trapped fool. And he was – ignorant and blundering, incapable of seeing a way out. All he’d ever wanted for her was for the Harpy to become strong and enduring, capable and wise, mighty and tenacious – but the path was away from. Away from them.
This wasn’t his responsibility, and this wasn’t his burden, and this wasn’t where Rexanna would’ve liked either of them to be, but it still cast itself on his shoulders. Still laid there, as he tried to make her understand, as he cradled her against him like it was a lifeline he’d never have again. “Maybe I can make something,” grasping at straws as he stared down at the ground, as he began to whittle away at naught once more. To what? Guard her from the world? Snag at fluid? Keep her tethered and caught, just like the Voice? It gnawed and choked at him, grasped at his throat, at his ribs, and he could hear her worry, even if he couldn’t feel it any longer, and it made him break and snap too.
Nor was he a statue at all, not any longer; bending into those emotions he always kept so carefully hidden, controlled, contorted, reeling in their factions and bindings like a trapped fool. And he was – ignorant and blundering, incapable of seeing a way out. All he’d ever wanted for her was for the Harpy to become strong and enduring, capable and wise, mighty and tenacious – but the path was away from. Away from them.
This wasn’t his responsibility, and this wasn’t his burden, and this wasn’t where Rexanna would’ve liked either of them to be, but it still cast itself on his shoulders. Still laid there, as he tried to make her understand, as he cradled her against him like it was a lifeline he’d never have again. “Maybe I can make something,” grasping at straws as he stared down at the ground, as he began to whittle away at naught once more. To what? Guard her from the world? Snag at fluid? Keep her tethered and caught, just like the Voice? It gnawed and choked at him, grasped at his throat, at his ribs, and he could hear her worry, even if he couldn’t feel it any longer, and it made him break and snap too.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
