Stronger. He had to become stronger.
Once, he believed himself to be utterly capable of anything thrown his way. Arrogant, defiant, confident, proud, and irreverent, he’d stepped before enemies and adversaries with intimidating, overbearing statures and reticent blades, waiting for their weaknesses to override their instincts, waiting for their ineffectual natures to curb their assaults, waiting for the world to bow at his feet. He’d been an enduring, malicious force, a thing to be feared, a machine, meant to serve king and country, until he occupied the throne, and then simply served the realm. He chased down demons who thought they could swindle him and his tactics, he mauled fiends who dared to defy his role, and he bludgeoned those who set foot within his sovereignty. The Reaper had been an unrelenting parallel of scythes and scabbards, of malevolent, acrimonious condemnation, a means to an end – and his unholy, bestial form had occupied, served, as sword, as ax, as executioner –
Until he died.
Then somewhere along the way he’d lost those tarnished emblems of power and might. The beast was reborn, but missing the brawn, the vigor, the prowess, the potential – starting over, beginning again, a resurgence of something he could hold within his bare hands. And for a while, it worked – he trained, he grew, he developed skills the old machine would have already honed in instinctually; then he went to war, put his work to practice, to dominion, to persistence and rigor. Most of the time he was victorious – in that he hadn’t succumbed again – but there were intervals where he lost, lost, and lost. He’d had no choice but to raise his head and continue onward, again, again, again.
This was one of those moments, stretched out and bleak, desolate and stark, where ordinary individuals would hover in between, then decide to cease and desist. He simply wasn’t one of them.
The warrior grabbed a pair of daggers and wandered down familiar roads and streets in the morning, after dawn, stuffing them within his satchel laden with other weapons and munitions, uncertain of what the baker would require or intend to use. Because they both aspired to become better; shields and swords, drawn along the crossroads, not yet pinpointed on any direction. Because there was no use in bowing his head down anymore, brooding and brewing, feeling sorry for his ineptitude, for his ineffectualness. Because soon, they wouldn’t be hidden at all, and something besides anger, hostility, and fervor would have to step into the light.
He stepped towards the bakery door and drove his knuckles into the door, three knocks in a ridiculous pattern, a signal, a sign of his arrival, before maneuvering himself towards the back, along the stretch of her garden. Deimos considered a particular distance and stretch of lawn, so they wouldn’t back into the flowers and produce, before laying down his bag, and pulling out the contents from within. Slowly, approaching from the woodline, was a darker creature too - horned and all - watching, waiting, a little more cautious.
Once, he believed himself to be utterly capable of anything thrown his way. Arrogant, defiant, confident, proud, and irreverent, he’d stepped before enemies and adversaries with intimidating, overbearing statures and reticent blades, waiting for their weaknesses to override their instincts, waiting for their ineffectual natures to curb their assaults, waiting for the world to bow at his feet. He’d been an enduring, malicious force, a thing to be feared, a machine, meant to serve king and country, until he occupied the throne, and then simply served the realm. He chased down demons who thought they could swindle him and his tactics, he mauled fiends who dared to defy his role, and he bludgeoned those who set foot within his sovereignty. The Reaper had been an unrelenting parallel of scythes and scabbards, of malevolent, acrimonious condemnation, a means to an end – and his unholy, bestial form had occupied, served, as sword, as ax, as executioner –
Until he died.
Then somewhere along the way he’d lost those tarnished emblems of power and might. The beast was reborn, but missing the brawn, the vigor, the prowess, the potential – starting over, beginning again, a resurgence of something he could hold within his bare hands. And for a while, it worked – he trained, he grew, he developed skills the old machine would have already honed in instinctually; then he went to war, put his work to practice, to dominion, to persistence and rigor. Most of the time he was victorious – in that he hadn’t succumbed again – but there were intervals where he lost, lost, and lost. He’d had no choice but to raise his head and continue onward, again, again, again.
This was one of those moments, stretched out and bleak, desolate and stark, where ordinary individuals would hover in between, then decide to cease and desist. He simply wasn’t one of them.
The warrior grabbed a pair of daggers and wandered down familiar roads and streets in the morning, after dawn, stuffing them within his satchel laden with other weapons and munitions, uncertain of what the baker would require or intend to use. Because they both aspired to become better; shields and swords, drawn along the crossroads, not yet pinpointed on any direction. Because there was no use in bowing his head down anymore, brooding and brewing, feeling sorry for his ineptitude, for his ineffectualness. Because soon, they wouldn’t be hidden at all, and something besides anger, hostility, and fervor would have to step into the light.
He stepped towards the bakery door and drove his knuckles into the door, three knocks in a ridiculous pattern, a signal, a sign of his arrival, before maneuvering himself towards the back, along the stretch of her garden. Deimos considered a particular distance and stretch of lawn, so they wouldn’t back into the flowers and produce, before laying down his bag, and pulling out the contents from within. Slowly, approaching from the woodline, was a darker creature too - horned and all - watching, waiting, a little more cautious.
