#godpraxis

[iculta]

i am directionless.

𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴,   desver has licked plenty of wounds closed;   blood a taste he knows better than water, better than bread.   inside this battered, cornered animal he can see a wet, weeping wound, a man broken beyond all means of recognition;   there he stands, soul trembling and in disarray, while his countenance remains still as a lake untouched.   what a great liar.   desver can smell it;   the stench of regret.   the odor of yearning, and yearning so profoundly it’s unbearable, for something one cannot grasp—that’s been there, once, but had been since torn away, replaced with a rot-strewn, rancorous sense of failure.

briefly, he alows himself to ponder: peace? safety? love?   then, with more rage, more envy, thinks:   haven’t you had enough?

desver moves like a wraith; a prophet speaking of an abominable end.   within these walls he’s a pariah, harbinger of death and all things putrid and corrupt.

you need to terrify to be remembered.   you need to terrify to be heard.   do i terrify you? 

“   i’m afraid you have been directionless for a time much longer than you have it in you to admit.   ”

to kill would be such an easy feat.   the beast doesn’t grin;   its eyes remain a vast field barren and vacant.   to seize back what’s never been his.   the beast doesn’t bare its teeth.   there is rage in him that’s red as blood and pungent as vomit, but for now, it scurries away, hissing at something else, something bigger.   he levels his gaze with ironwood’s.   do you fear the vice grip of my jaw?   “   and what will you do now…   now, that there’s no one left to clean up the mess?   i am not your hound, general, and i will not eat the bodies you failed to bury.   pull at the leash and it’ll slither towards you like a snake.   ”   desver tilts his head, mocking.   for a handful of seconds he pauses, basking in the silence.   “   you are not atlas.   you’re a man so desperate to become something more he wrought and usurped it until it was forced to become a part of you.   ”

beauty in ruin.   beauty in destruction.   here, he finds none.   all his life’s work—all his protection—unmade.   seize it back. 

“   coup de grâce,   ”   he reaches out just enough to touch james’ shoulder with a pair of his fingers.   underneath, atlesian mechanisms whirr;   nothing has ever truly died.   there’s a swarm of insects under his skin, buzzing.   “   if you put it out of its misery, what will remain of you?   ”

[iculta]

𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘺 and his teeth shine bright into the boundless living night.   he smiles wolf-wild, he smiles with something like poison, with morbidity stuck to his lips; a sinister line long and humorless, cut spread in flesh.   desver finds the encounter to be most ironic; he had planned silence, he had planned to watch and stalk from the shadows, a fox slinking in its search for the rabbit’s trail---as it has always been.   but he had no choice.   no choice but to step out into the light, to bask in it, staring into the eyes of ironwood himself---his eyes are flat and unshining, body bone-weary and squandered.   i, too, have lost sleep to prevent this; i, too, have made my sacrifices.   he takes a few steps forward, unarmed, hands spread in plain sight.   i, too, seek what you seek.   “   now, now. what a chance meeting...   indeed.   ”   desver chisels the malice out of his voice, leaves behind something raw and blank.   “   we don’t have the time to fight against each other, not now.   let me help you help them, general.   ”

@godpraxis​.