you can tell how dangerous a person is by the way they hold their anger inside themselves quietly
Composure, tenacity, and perseverance had been figments intrinsically carved into the Sword and Reaper both. Grit and mettle, fortitude and resolve, persistence and endurance in nearly every walk of life – and it’d taken all of that to land somewhere precarious, stalking the shadows of another potential fall. Experience, grief, loss, and abandonment had been harsh teachers, and the notes of pushing onward thereafter even harder – each day to relive where he’d erred and failed.
He'd seen the crossroads from crimson wiles a mile away, and still wandered in their direction.
Something in the back of his mind told him he knew better; safety and sanctity, maybe, or the portions of his soul that were still tarnished from their lifetimes of anguish. Protective, building walls upon walls and permitting the rest of the world at bay. It was easy. It was simple. It was fear. It was startingly lonely.
And how many times had people told him of his worth? Of deserving things like this? And how many more hours would he deny it? What was bravery anyway, when one could be courageous and still so afraid?
When did he stop wanting anything for himself?
A harsh intake of breath resounded in his chest, a potential gasp, a glimmer of hope, nearly inaudible. The shudder along muscle and sinew was far more noticeable, and he wasn’t going to deny it, hands and warmth on his sternum, blending and fixating and trying not to come undone – heart a hammer in his ribs, still not so blackened as the rest of his soul. There were a thousand things he could’ve said, like you will regret it because someone always did and awaiting inevitable damnation at the spurning of another – reaching out instead and ignoring the tremble in his fingers, touching over her cheeks, bending down to grant her access, to give her permission for both of them to be a bit bolder. “Yes,” a whisper, hovering, waiting for her to make the final move.
He'd seen the crossroads from crimson wiles a mile away, and still wandered in their direction.
Something in the back of his mind told him he knew better; safety and sanctity, maybe, or the portions of his soul that were still tarnished from their lifetimes of anguish. Protective, building walls upon walls and permitting the rest of the world at bay. It was easy. It was simple. It was fear. It was startingly lonely.
And how many times had people told him of his worth? Of deserving things like this? And how many more hours would he deny it? What was bravery anyway, when one could be courageous and still so afraid?
When did he stop wanting anything for himself?
A harsh intake of breath resounded in his chest, a potential gasp, a glimmer of hope, nearly inaudible. The shudder along muscle and sinew was far more noticeable, and he wasn’t going to deny it, hands and warmth on his sternum, blending and fixating and trying not to come undone – heart a hammer in his ribs, still not so blackened as the rest of his soul. There were a thousand things he could’ve said, like you will regret it because someone always did and awaiting inevitable damnation at the spurning of another – reaching out instead and ignoring the tremble in his fingers, touching over her cheeks, bending down to grant her access, to give her permission for both of them to be a bit bolder. “Yes,” a whisper, hovering, waiting for her to make the final move.
DEIMOS
