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 The words stung, even in the midst of a dream, even in the throngs of clarity and absence. Worlds before, entangled in brawls and brutality. Wars for vengeance. Water pressing on him in every direction, a caress, instead of drowning, drowning, drowning. Stars chasing, orbiting, satellites and suns, signs of acceptance he’d never dreamed of. Thieves and cloaks and daggers, against kingdoms and searing for the emblems, the banners, of power, for just a few feral moments. “So cherish them in the present?” He knew the answer. He just didn’t know how to do it, how to not live in regret. He sniffed, the last dregs of a final sob, shaking his head in her grasp, not trying to leave. “Do you want to hear some now?” The Sword could try to fill in the gaps, what she might’ve missed, what she might not have seen from wherever her soul was. He couldn’t promise the moments wouldn’t be blends of a time from mountains, from fog, from billows of ash, or the now; it was hard to guess when nothing was concrete, tangible. The denial made his skull tilt, still held, still in her warmth and guidance for a few more intervals. He caught her feral smirk, the entanglements of a joke, at snatching talons. “They take.” They clawed and didn’t care. “I have not done that in a while either.” So he sighed, as if the entire notion left him, and he was empty. |
Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary
