who we are and all that we're trying to be
The autumn morning was crisp and cool, a beneficial alternative to the striking heat of summer, to the pressing toxins no longer invading his chest, to the torn and flayed skin, laid open by insects, by upheaval, and by friendly fire. He hid it all away, buried them beneath a long-sleeved shirt and his reticent mask, carefully orchestrated, confined, meant to look as though there was naught, not a hint of emotion, not a smoking gun, not a vicious upheaval meandering its way through his mind.
Not enough, not enough, not enough a choking rasp down his throat, a bestial, barbaric form brought to life in pits, in pendulums, in nooses created by their own actions, their own machinations. Because if he’d been half the character, the man, the beast, he should’ve been, maybe their failure wouldn’t have been so great. Perhaps they would’ve had a chance. Maybe things would’ve gone differently. But he had the scars, the injuries, and the lacerations to prove he was just as weak as before, mottled and ruined, defeated and useless.
But he also wasn’t the type to merely wallow in it – brooding was his main agenda, however, there were motives and machinations to consider. He could use this opportunity to better himself. To be stronger. To be mightier. To be something other than a shield, a battering ram, or a damned target. The Reaper always had violence and abhorrence to go back to – even if it was for himself, for his failures, for his shame, for his inability to do anything effectual when it mattered the most.
Behind his house, the warrior laid out his favored weapons along the shorn grass, from cutlasses, to broadswords, to daggers, most of them created by his own hands, hilts adorned and decorated with either plain materials, or something significant (snow, mountains, broken, decrepit thrones, jagged crowns, whales, moons, stars, the sun). There were a few wooden swords tossed in too, in case some situation called for it. But while he waited, while the dawn reminded him that he was still alive, still present, still raw and real, he grabbed hold of his favorite blade.
It felt good in his hands again – calloused and comfortable, eager for battle even if the rest of his body painstakingly reminded him he wasn’t. Deimos marched to a flatter area, dropping the sword for a moment, and allowed his hands to create a medium-sized target, a trace of ill humor notched in his design (its facial features eerily reminiscent of a former foe). He stepped back, palm reaching to shake it once or twice to ensure it was steady and sturdy, before grabbing hold of his weapon, and making a silent, hushed swing.
It was bliss – substantial and irreverent while his arms seethed and seared, while his chest scathed and hissed, while the rest of his figure demanded he cease.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
