DEIMOS
To a degree, most of their worlds have been the dipped in the same brushstrokes as all the others: vibrant streaks of hope, and endless blurs and blends of disastrous hues. The Reaper had no idea of what had occurred to the little fire child after he’d died, perished and forsaken, dispatched just as quickly as he’d devastated others; but here, the stakes seemed to be parallel, equal, demonstrative qualities of prosperity, then ruin. He listened, quiet, a bastion, a port in the storm, while she shared, and he took it all in, the details, the tragedies, the slender triumphs between the trials and tribulations, wondering what they’d all done to get this far, to be so mired and riddled by havoc. Perhaps they were too bold, too brazen, too inept, too ineffectual, marching along the intervals and lines that they should’ve blatantly ignored, read more into warnings and disaster, thought better than to trip upon the scattered thorns and nettles. But they kept doing it, over and over and over again, and though he was stoic, thought he was reticent, somewhere along his ribs and lungs, his heart and soul, were tiny slivers of jagged edges, wishing they could’ve been more, could’ve done more, could’ve been faster, could’ve been stronger, could’ve done something else to alleviate the pit occupants’ pain. To be sacrificed was such a horrific connotation, even if he understood its wit and measures now, culminating in proffering memories, neither forsaken or gone, but recited, collected, as if they were little anthems and tattoos spread amidst turtles and infernos. “I am sorry we were not there sooner,” was all he could muster, his jaw clenched, hands tightening into fists, before breathing, inhaling, exhaling, in the shape of someone not so damned disastrous and molten. Those moments were already gone: he couldn’t acquire them back, only to rip them apart, piece by piece, shard by shard – escaped and liberated, to what means, to what measures, to what ends had yet to be quantified or revealed. She didn’t offer or say which recollections she’d picked out of the hordes, and he didn’t ask: not certain where contentment would’ve started, or if they would’ve all been brutal and dark, treacherous and sinuous, with the deity wishing he’d never asked for anything of the warrior.
He could feel her crumbling beside him though, no longer a particle of stone or fire, the embers doused, the flares seething, weary, and the depths of his ferocious gaze settled upon her with naught but his faith and determination. Kiada was always more than bits of hollow veils and empty shrouds; it was how he’d remembered her, beatific and wild, untamed and savage, eternally willing to command her movements and motions into anything she wanted, craved, desired. A fighter for the Rift, a world he’d never known, deceased and then reborn, resurrected back into opposing sides and the singular storyline: stupid, stupid, stupid, incapable of being there for anyone or anything that ever actually required him (did they? the earth asked and rumbled. Did they want you at all?).
Useless and vacant – that was how he’d come to be.
But his hands reached for her, intended to pluck her straight off the bone bridge’s adornments and eerie, enigmatic, bleached décor, and straight into his chest – a warm, protective embrace, safe and tucked away from the darkness, from the unholy divisions colliding into them. “We need you,” he rumbled, dignified and certain, a nod as he hid her from the knives and daggers, as he strived to incite and kindle the fire. “But it is not for us to dictate your life.” He stepped back, hands on her shoulders, intending for her to look up at him, to see the ferocity and veracity tucked in the fathoms of his eyes. “You are strong. You have always been strong.” The beast’s head tilted, surveyed her again, the particles of Kiada that had frozen in his memory, alive now, caught in the tumultuous, tempestuous gale of her life – too burdened by sorrow, etched and sketched and scarred like the rest of them. “So how can you utilize that strength?”
He could feel her crumbling beside him though, no longer a particle of stone or fire, the embers doused, the flares seething, weary, and the depths of his ferocious gaze settled upon her with naught but his faith and determination. Kiada was always more than bits of hollow veils and empty shrouds; it was how he’d remembered her, beatific and wild, untamed and savage, eternally willing to command her movements and motions into anything she wanted, craved, desired. A fighter for the Rift, a world he’d never known, deceased and then reborn, resurrected back into opposing sides and the singular storyline: stupid, stupid, stupid, incapable of being there for anyone or anything that ever actually required him (did they? the earth asked and rumbled. Did they want you at all?).
Useless and vacant – that was how he’d come to be.
But his hands reached for her, intended to pluck her straight off the bone bridge’s adornments and eerie, enigmatic, bleached décor, and straight into his chest – a warm, protective embrace, safe and tucked away from the darkness, from the unholy divisions colliding into them. “We need you,” he rumbled, dignified and certain, a nod as he hid her from the knives and daggers, as he strived to incite and kindle the fire. “But it is not for us to dictate your life.” He stepped back, hands on her shoulders, intending for her to look up at him, to see the ferocity and veracity tucked in the fathoms of his eyes. “You are strong. You have always been strong.” The beast’s head tilted, surveyed her again, the particles of Kiada that had frozen in his memory, alive now, caught in the tumultuous, tempestuous gale of her life – too burdened by sorrow, etched and sketched and scarred like the rest of them. “So how can you utilize that strength?”
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
