DEIMOS
Alone – the whispers in the dark, the shadows pressing in, the gnawing abyss, the crowning void, echoing and clawing for its king. Detachment and reticence, apathy and acrimony, had been there for most of his life, coming in waves and cycles, when the world took everything from him and tore it all apart, when he stopped trying to reach forward and grab something out of the storm. He was familiar, a part of its ominous beacon, so easily consumed by oblivion, by the haunting, poignant threads, by the gnarls and knots trapping him from within. But inch by inch, little by little, the people lingering around these Stygian pursuits plucked him out of the shell, out of the vacuity, setting him along paths where inhabitants beckoned brighter than the merciless ravines. He’d tried and they’d tolerated, accepted, his behemoth vessel and his silent, sullen, grim lines, invited him into their reaches, into their folds, until he could see more than his misery, and become more than his melancholy. He could do the same for her.
“I have tried,” (tried to push everyone away because it was easier to barely exist than watch them all perish again, to wither, to fade, to decay) he confessed, when she uttered about not wanting to be on her lonesome, caught in the ruses of her own tempestuous storm, the actions, the motives, the waves crashing down around her. The Reaper wouldn’t want her lingering in the same treads, paths, or footfalls he’d already taken – the road was traversed upon with so much contempt, so much self-loathing, and so many damned precipices, he was afraid she’d be tethered and smothered there, losing the brazenness, the boldness, that had once shaped her, that had once encouraged a damaged monarch to look her way, push and encourage her into something besides onslaughts and terrors. He’d experienced it – it wasn’t worth the weight, the price, the devouring and swallowing of one’s soul.
He could say a thousand things about lost loved ones: about how they lingered in memories and dreams, about how they ensured that it was possible for their ridiculous, consumed essences to be cherished by another (and how remarkable; for more than one person to believe he was even worth glancing upon), about how they never truly left them, about how they carved and whittled their way into anything and everything. Maybe she already knew, had witnessed the coil of her brother’s strength wrapped in hers. Perhaps she’d savored Ru’in’s smile and tucked it within her own when the world wasn’t watching. His eyes watched her, unaware of all the other things she’d had taken from her in the crossfire, in the years where he’d simply been gone, extinguished, left into the earth, dead, dead, dead, a ghost, a phantom, a reaper reaped. “You have friends. You have family. You have us.” You have me. He arched a brow, meant to be in good humor, yearning for her to look around and rejoice in what was there, in what she had already – the past clung, hoping someone would make the same mistakes, and he didn’t want it to be the Harpy.
She could worry. He did too – but then action replaced apprehension, motions and maneuvers replaced consternation, and they became a threat instead of a thread tightening around his ribs. “And you know how to persevere. His voice was a vow, an assurance, a piece notched in the ether, in his hands, in his hold. "That is what we will do.”
“I have tried,” (tried to push everyone away because it was easier to barely exist than watch them all perish again, to wither, to fade, to decay) he confessed, when she uttered about not wanting to be on her lonesome, caught in the ruses of her own tempestuous storm, the actions, the motives, the waves crashing down around her. The Reaper wouldn’t want her lingering in the same treads, paths, or footfalls he’d already taken – the road was traversed upon with so much contempt, so much self-loathing, and so many damned precipices, he was afraid she’d be tethered and smothered there, losing the brazenness, the boldness, that had once shaped her, that had once encouraged a damaged monarch to look her way, push and encourage her into something besides onslaughts and terrors. He’d experienced it – it wasn’t worth the weight, the price, the devouring and swallowing of one’s soul.
He could say a thousand things about lost loved ones: about how they lingered in memories and dreams, about how they ensured that it was possible for their ridiculous, consumed essences to be cherished by another (and how remarkable; for more than one person to believe he was even worth glancing upon), about how they never truly left them, about how they carved and whittled their way into anything and everything. Maybe she already knew, had witnessed the coil of her brother’s strength wrapped in hers. Perhaps she’d savored Ru’in’s smile and tucked it within her own when the world wasn’t watching. His eyes watched her, unaware of all the other things she’d had taken from her in the crossfire, in the years where he’d simply been gone, extinguished, left into the earth, dead, dead, dead, a ghost, a phantom, a reaper reaped. “You have friends. You have family. You have us.” You have me. He arched a brow, meant to be in good humor, yearning for her to look around and rejoice in what was there, in what she had already – the past clung, hoping someone would make the same mistakes, and he didn’t want it to be the Harpy.
She could worry. He did too – but then action replaced apprehension, motions and maneuvers replaced consternation, and they became a threat instead of a thread tightening around his ribs. “And you know how to persevere. His voice was a vow, an assurance, a piece notched in the ether, in his hands, in his hold. "That is what we will do.”
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
