Shoot the Messenger

D e i m o s

Send a heartbeat to the void that cries through you
Relive the pictures that have come to pass

No, he didn’t know him. He didn’t know Deimos at all. Mischief and amusement amongst friends was one thing; and that’s all Jigano had ever seen of him, until now, until this point, until this juncture where bedlam threatened, renewed itself in the segments of the Reaper’s being. Neither of them were all-knowing, omnipotent forces – perhaps that was how they’d arrived at this situation in the first place, with companions snatched and the grasping, clenching unknown crawling down their backs. All they had were their experiences, their strikes, their claims; Jigano couldn’t possibly come to contemplate or understand Deimos in all his glory, when the glacial walls clicked into place, when the violence and fury collected, bound, and tethered itself into one triumphant, magnificent, deadly opus. Worlds had tossed the beast about and he still remained, chiseled, sculpted, and molded for just these occasions, the warfare, the melee, the skirmish into the unknown, unleashed from one hell and sent to another. The Loreseeker wouldn’t know the lengths he’d go to save the ones he cherished, how much he’d bled to liberate their souls, how much he’d give and take and tear apart, an unrelenting, brutal force of vengeance and menace. Jigano would be free to guess, to observe, to estimate, to assume. Eventually, his ignorance would die away, and perhaps he’d be able to view the dangerous, nefarious presence before him – monolith and stone, nonchalant and apathetic, warped to life by every seething maelstrom pervading and pulsing from his body.   Deimos reserved his judgment of the bard, though for now, it had come tumbling down to reality. “I will gather some and contact a Fae.” This was a mutual effort, a foundation not meant to sever ties or bludgeon alliances, to blend them all together and form a blistering camaraderie, to rescue and liberate their friends. The more they could gain, the better off they’d be – especially if some deigned to be tricksters or deceivers. He could get ahold of Ianto and others, assemble those who were willing to provide assistance, no matter the danger, the treachery, lurking in the woods. It would be up to them. Then he took the mantle, the helm, the sword. “Good. We can all meet tomorrow afternoon at the edge of the Wildwood. Bring your information, resources, weapons, and people.” Thereafter, he turned straight back to the notice board, grabbing hold of a piece of parchment. He’d be posting there later – once he’d ascertained enough knowledge to pass along to their constituents. For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate