DEIMOS
the ocean does not apologize for its depth
and the mountains do not seek forgiveness
and the mountains do not seek forgiveness
The Sword waited for another ax to fall. He’d become quite competent at it – standing in the midst of chaos or revelations, and presuming judgement would come to slash down over his neck, remaining like a forbearing statue, capable of binding himself back, piece by piece, form by form. Except it seemed more and more difficult each time, and while he wouldn’t shy away from his consequences, he hadn’t anticipated how much he’d lose in a series of stupefying moments. In ignoring his own advice, he’d been claimed by aftermaths and ramifications; blatantly corroding the forged steel, the persistent might.
The burden was still there, shackled to his shoulders. The silence grated and so he took a stick and carved little nuances and pathways in the sand, like it was some semblance of escape from the circumventing contortions in his mind, or the bludgeoning of eventuality coming to smother and drown him.
He didn’t expect the murmur – presumed there’d be hostility and anger, wrath and contempt, disappointment and half-hearted regrets. However, there was something within that he latched onto – not the apologies, not the rue, but the too, and Atlas. “Did Ru tell you what happened?” Woven somehow, someway, he was certain, in a level of deceit – because that was the Valkyrie through and through – before he prospered another sigh, concocted another trail in the dunes that seemed to reach a dead-end. “I am going to try,” like he owed the world something, even when he’d let the other remnants topple and fall. Never before had he let his kingdom down in such a way; and there were other notions to consider. Obligations to Safrin, motions that would not pass from behind his teeth. “Otherwise there is only the Greatwood left.”
The burden was still there, shackled to his shoulders. The silence grated and so he took a stick and carved little nuances and pathways in the sand, like it was some semblance of escape from the circumventing contortions in his mind, or the bludgeoning of eventuality coming to smother and drown him.
He didn’t expect the murmur – presumed there’d be hostility and anger, wrath and contempt, disappointment and half-hearted regrets. However, there was something within that he latched onto – not the apologies, not the rue, but the too, and Atlas. “Did Ru tell you what happened?” Woven somehow, someway, he was certain, in a level of deceit – because that was the Valkyrie through and through – before he prospered another sigh, concocted another trail in the dunes that seemed to reach a dead-end. “I am going to try,” like he owed the world something, even when he’d let the other remnants topple and fall. Never before had he let his kingdom down in such a way; and there were other notions to consider. Obligations to Safrin, motions that would not pass from behind his teeth. “Otherwise there is only the Greatwood left.”
for the space they take
and so, neither shall I
and so, neither shall I
