DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
The fury in his ribcage wasn’t a burning one; cold, cold, cold, like the glacial winds outside, within the expanse of the world they’d come to protect all over again. Borne out of frustration, hinderings, and forestallment; what should have been a momentous occasion, worth celebrating for her, had been notched and nestled into another foil. And while she spoke he tried not to seethe, tried to force it all down, down, down into the calming, composed jurisdictions of his soul that could interlock detachment and apathy so god damned readily. But not with Ru, and not with the score of others he’d always sworn to protect, shield, and guard – and while his loyalty was eternally available, it wasn’t without fault, flaw, or human composition. Neither of them were.
So he ceased the emboldened drawing for a moment, leaning back in his chair, spine unyielding and straight, trying to listen without the blood pounding in his ears. And while she might have craved a resolution, tried to absolve the crisis before it began, it was far too late now. His voice chiseled back into the room, the small kitchen with firelight flickering, with his companions staring, with the realms pressing inward on them again and again. Calm, rationale, without the facetious intonations. “I wish you would have told me sooner. So there could have been a joint solution.” They’d always worked better together, rather than tearing worlds apart on solo executions. “Instead of this haphazard mess.” Something they said they wouldn’t do – and his chilling calculations were going to have to press in all the more. “I do not believe I have ever asked you to bear anything on your own.” Why she’d chosen to do it now made little sense to him.
His eyes went downward and a sigh billowed through his lungs, before picking up the pencil again, rendering scales and earthen wares, craving absolution in the darkening wake they seemed to continually face. He had half a mind to put his face down to the wood and just repeatedly crash it against the enamel, but it wouldn’t do any good. Deimos made no comment about the child, not right now, not while he simmered quietly, trying to make an effort to fix and alter. When some portions were placed down, his finger went to the corner, pointing. “We will need someone there.” As if the nuances were simple and precise.
Then he permitted her to inspect, tempted to pace again. He remained still, save for his hand drumming against the table. No names to a witness. Capabilities of escaping a jail they knew nothing about. The sudden maelstrom from her soul, bleeding out into the room, and his simply remaining in its cataclysmic state – waiting to erupt. “Perhaps.”
So he ceased the emboldened drawing for a moment, leaning back in his chair, spine unyielding and straight, trying to listen without the blood pounding in his ears. And while she might have craved a resolution, tried to absolve the crisis before it began, it was far too late now. His voice chiseled back into the room, the small kitchen with firelight flickering, with his companions staring, with the realms pressing inward on them again and again. Calm, rationale, without the facetious intonations. “I wish you would have told me sooner. So there could have been a joint solution.” They’d always worked better together, rather than tearing worlds apart on solo executions. “Instead of this haphazard mess.” Something they said they wouldn’t do – and his chilling calculations were going to have to press in all the more. “I do not believe I have ever asked you to bear anything on your own.” Why she’d chosen to do it now made little sense to him.
His eyes went downward and a sigh billowed through his lungs, before picking up the pencil again, rendering scales and earthen wares, craving absolution in the darkening wake they seemed to continually face. He had half a mind to put his face down to the wood and just repeatedly crash it against the enamel, but it wouldn’t do any good. Deimos made no comment about the child, not right now, not while he simmered quietly, trying to make an effort to fix and alter. When some portions were placed down, his finger went to the corner, pointing. “We will need someone there.” As if the nuances were simple and precise.
Then he permitted her to inspect, tempted to pace again. He remained still, save for his hand drumming against the table. No names to a witness. Capabilities of escaping a jail they knew nothing about. The sudden maelstrom from her soul, bleeding out into the room, and his simply remaining in its cataclysmic state – waiting to erupt. “Perhaps.”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
