dominoes of indiscretions down

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame The impact of the moments had tied him in gnarled, festering knots, and he growled inwardly at his faults, at his flaws, at his poor choices, crumbling them down in these pitfalls and purgatories. Stupid – he was so stupid. Why anyone had ever followed him around, allowed him to lead them was beyond him, because this had ineptitude, ignorance, and foolishness written all over it. He’d fallen, been lured, been unraveled, within an instant, the beast who always perceived himself in total, utter control, gone in feral flocks and hazy lights. He’d been blinded, deceived, and utterly beguiled, swarming right into nooses, traps, and death knells. What could he have done, had Kiada been hurt and caught along the way? The notion ground against him and were he alone, he might have further withered and decayed, useless, worthless piece of scum. Perhaps that was how the Basin had always seen him – just let him wilt up there on those winter thrones, filling an empty chassis, a hollowed chair, while they droned on and on in their own mixtures of hatred, greed, and contempt. Maybe they’d always known he was a complete idiot, a dunce, a moron, permitted him to fade and bleed himself dry, a dark target, a shield, a sword; fight, fight, fight for everyone and anyone while they looked on, while they smirked, while they snickered. He was numb and detached, nonchalant and reticent, because then things like this wouldn’t, didn’t, happen, and he wouldn’t be overcome, he wouldn’t be torn apart, he wouldn’t be so weak. Kiada’s hands kept clutching at him, bringing him back to reality, striving to keep him away from the self-hatred and torment, but it would return, sooner rather than later, when left to his own devices, when staring at the lowly reflection. The silence stretched and he hung his head, proffered his apologies because it was all he had – his sworn oaths and ultimatums and vows equally valueless and cheap. He marched, steadily, not lifting his eyes to fickle, mercurial ether, sweet, rapacious air, or her, ashamed, bitterly abashed. It tore against him, and she probably knew, understood, the trappings curling over his chest and ribs, layering down into his bones, determination giving sway to ancient potency and loathing, antipathy for himself and no one else. It was her quiet, imploring voice lingering and loitering on his ears, waiting, that drummed a solemn cacophony against him, and the sullen, morose sensation of vulnerability sank into his veins, coiled and contorted within his marrow. “Huyana,” he stated – lost love, regrets, and rancor now a solid weapon and munitions against him, and he breathed, inhaled, a more voracious exultation, beating, fleeting, over the top of his shoulders. His piercing eyes registered the ground, the moss, the oaks, the branches, the brambles, and nothing more. “What about you?” It was a sunken sound, and the barest inclination of his head, not worthy of even glancing the Harpy’s way. Maybe she hadn’t heard anything, and it meant he was feeble, pathetic, in the face of the poignant ventures that haunted him, ghosts in his eyes, in his shell, in his soul, easy to pluck and arm. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace