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 did know; and maybe it was just factions of some childish, juvenile figment that had never come to fruition, growing up and learning what it meant for families to be ripped apart, torn asunder, slain, derived from everything into nothing in a matter of seconds. It didn’t stop the dream, the wonder, the petulance, but he had to agree, had to understand. There was no recollection of how long he stayed in her hold, comforted by the brink of ghosts and memories, of ethers and vestiges long since passed – winter cycles and glacial wares, piercing through his heart, making him bleed anew. “I do not think I have ever cherished…moments. Not until they were gone.” A pause, while the dusk settled in around them, while the aurora lights flashed above, and he could breathe again, not so hidden, not so stark, not so beaten. “I can try. And see you again. Have better stories for you.” More than death. More than failures. More than wishes and hopes that never made it. Face lifted, thumbs across his face, dashing away the remainder of tears, and he snorted, choked down a harsh intake of breath, striving to be laughter. “A duck.” The Reaper and the Sword shook his head, but remained in her grasp, incapable of pulling away. Not wanting to. “I am not a duck. I am an eagle.” But yes, he had been stone, rock, solid, immovable, for so very, very long. |
Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary
