wound relentlessly

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame He remembered many things he should not. Sometimes they came to him in his dreams, grasping, clenching, tugging him down by the frayed ends and the unraveled seams, begging him to bear witness to fantasies and memories that shouldn’t have belonged to him at all. There were arches of green and mist-covered hills, the depths of cliffs bearing the crashing waves, the labyrinthine design of fog and the ends of the earth. He’d breathe and they’d be gone, all the masses, all the pictures, returning in scenes of desolation, bleak thresholds, inhospitable, but the only place they’d begun to thrive. It always ended with a glimpse of mountains, peaks erupting from the terrain with grand summits and promising danger; the synapses of treachery singing in his veins, you will be better coiling its way through endless, fervent, ardent whispers of power and prestige. Home: it rang, it stretched, it vowed, the most assuring, pressing thing in the back of his skull. He’d always awakened to the eerie, enigmatic pull, trying to understand, to comprehend, why Isilme’s war-torn landscape and restless iniquities hadn’t felt so permanent – not like the glaciers, the twin monoliths, his lungs filled with fire and desecration. Deimos very suddenly wanted to flee and not look back. Things were disentangling, and he didn’t want to look them in the eye, didn’t want to see them for what they really were; it was so much easier to hide, to erode, to remain in stasis, never becoming anything other than ash and bone. Lord, when the hell had he become so broken? Such a god damn coward? His fingers continued to listlessly scratch the top of the luxere’s head while he strained to understand a thousand things in a matter of moments. He swallowed, he opened his mouth, and no sound came out; he didn’t know what to say about the fire and fury collecting in his thoughts, about the meticulous, unwavering self-assurance that had somehow been abraded and weathered away; once iron and steel, once fortification and diabolical ruin. He’d been insurrection and rebellion, blood coursing through his veins with simple, outlined menace and mayhem, an intimidating, belligerent creature no one dared cross. Now he just tucked himself into shadows and hoped no one looked his way while he brooded over loss, loss, and loss, unaware and ignorant of how many things he’d managed to never regain. You will be better rang and haunted in his ears when he finally looked up, glanced at the girl who had burned against the grain, who’d tried and tried and tried to show the worlds, the kingdoms, exactly what she was made of. He’d given her a reward, an appreciative offer. Then he was gone. He kept clinging to the notions, the particulars, the details he couldn’t explain. When his mouth finally opened again, the strangest nuances and collections rumbled forth – he couldn’t look her in the eye, not after she laughed, not after she smiled, not after the pieces kept falling off of him.“There was a lake that never froze. A mirror to summon a god. Two guardians at the gates.” Then he whispered, nearly inaudible, wondering just how he was supposed to restart again and why anyone would have given him chance after chance. “I miss everything.” master of nothing place of recoil and grace

Kiada