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’d been terrified then and he was terrified now – of losing everything in his path, of striving and striving and trying and trying and nothing coming of it. Nothing but pain and anguish and torture in the end – when the world fell apart and unraveled. His heart hammered in his chest, and he shook his head, the water pressing against him, more ghosts, more fragments of a world utterly lost and gone to him forever. “No. I just want them to stay.” For eternity, to be with him forever. But it was impossible, and he’d learned that over and over and over again. You are special made him snort once more, and he had nothing to refute any longer. Too tired, too exhausted, by the weight of everything pressing down over his chest, careening between slumber and memories curled, contorted, by his own mind – a fraction of the emotions welled and walled up inside of him. And she took him while he broke, and he could almost recall the feeling of her arms around him as he slid away before – surrounded, loved, cherished for minutes and moments. Even if it was just a memory, just a dream, he could tuck it away until they were all together, in death and not in damnation. His head fell against her shoulder, brow tucked along strong bones, as he wept and choked and ached. “Then why do they leave?” A quiet murmur, a desolate expanse; if they wanted him around, why did they push him aside? The girl in the rain, pieced away into columns of night, and gone, gone, dead, the shield with a heart too large and a mind too overwhelmed. A part of him wanted to argue. But what would it be worth? And she was probably right. It was the acceptance that made it all the more difficult to bear. Another sob, and a quiet nod. “Okay.” |
Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary
