Deimos the Reaper You can't take back the cards you've dealt on this long and lonely road to hell the throne must be such a sad and lonely place He cared though; he cared for the repercussions, he cared for the aching abyss, he cared for the point where he’d been cherished and loved and then tossed aside. “But I am tired of losing.” Exhausted from the effort of grasping, of clenching, of trying to snag them back from the throes of death, from heralds who sought their souls. “Is it?” He wasn’t sure what to believe, what to see, what to feel, drifting, very lost all of a sudden, branching out in discarded, desolate reaches, staring at a space that had been filled and then vacant. Special? A snort ensued, immediate refusal in the depths of the spring, where he could press his head back and become riveted by the sky, by the hard-cut lines the mountains carved into it. “I am not.” Soldiers were a dime a dozen; there were always fighters, mercenaries, selfless idiots flinging themselves into hell so someone else didn’t have to. No one would miss him when he perished again, rejoined his ghosts, his brethren. Not like the holes in his heart, not like the beings he’d adored and who’d taken final breaths, and he couldn’t stop it – At his side, still in the courses of imagination, and he could enjoy those small, minute moments. “We already made mud baths. I did not try them.” The tears threatened again at her insistence, something in her soft smile, in the cut of the suggestion. “It is so difficult.” They drew on his cheeks and clung down the length of his jaw, and he choked down a sob as the warmth flooded over shoulders and brawn, as he broke apart even in his dreams, incapable of keeping any together nowadays. “Without you, or Kiada.” And maybe he’d drown here too. “I do not think I can do this.” |
Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary
