There’s half a second where he nearly hoped no information was relegated to the subject; a strange fear underlying the meticulous road he traversed. Perhaps he was better off leaving enigmas to their wake, stewing in existence, decaying over time, festering and withering away with adequate distractions. But Deimos knew himself too well – the beast would always harbor the curiosity, the intrigue, of interwoven lines, of things he’d supposedly done, of thrones he’d supposedly held, of betrayals inked before the present, of singed marrows and flayed sinews. But she assured him that these texts existed, and now he had no stopping point, no reason to flee the scene, to raise his walls, guard his temple, and pretend these moments never occurred. He could’ve lived his life free of the burdens, of the nuances, of the notions of a world beyond this one (but the mountains would still pull, the memories would still linger, and he’d constantly yearn to know).
She disappeared back into the legions of tomes and text, and he was alone for a few moments, pondering the treads, the pathways, leading him down these broken fringes and edges. Her voice curled over the library’s abyss though, and without his notice he followed it, listening to the decibels ring with hushed intonations, as if she dared not raise animosity or acrimony again. The wicked nature of his ravenous, avaricious hinges didn’t give him any pause, he surged onward, catching the softened decibels, a hunter stalking prey.
Then her words hit, bludgeoned, punctured down into his roots, and he bit down the growl threatening to unravel from his throat. Was he so easily read? She’d managed to burrow a thorn straight into his soul – for there were so many things harpooning his dreams, sinking him into twilight, into the gloom, into oblivion. A chance to atone…, as if he didn’t have a thousand sins unfolding in the current lifeline: swords stabbed deep into the hearts of other men, and not caring, completely, utterly indifferent to their plights and crusade when he had his own to fulfill. His parents, gone because he wasn’t there to save them, off waging war for a sovereign who collected living, breathing weapons, and the mist, the rain, trying desperately to wash way all those unholy moments, to absolve, to liberate him from the chains, the tethers, the manacles dragging him down – it hadn’t mattered. His efforts had been in vain. Maybe it was punishment for the life prior, for the bleeding ambitions and the violent ambitions, the upheaval still pulsing, still raging, through his muscles, his flesh, his bones. Maybe it was just a vicious spiral, born to rise in vehemence and sedition, doomed to die entombed by his errors, by his flaws, by all the mistakes rising up to meet him in one glorious noose. Maybe he didn’t want to be redeemed, to reconcile with anyone or anything, to live with his measures and means wrapped in wrath. The Reaper nearly snorted at the notion of Gods too; they’d left him behind ages ago, struck by death provocations, by the nefarious enchantments bound to his existence. “Apparently I have much to amend,” he uttered in the dark, looking away from anything and everything, glancing up at the gaping holes in the walls, drawing his ramparts back over his features, safeguarding any further thoughts from prying eyes, from sunshine niceties.
But she offered three books, and he had to accept; clenched jaw, detached face lingering back on hers, hands gently taking hold of the texts, looking for a table, a desk, somewhere to place them, to read their inscriptions, to dive any closer to miserable dreams and bestial machinations. Deimos missed her apprehension, the reasoning behind the concern. “These will suffice for now. Thank you.” But she appeared to want to be useful, and so he granted her another avenue of assistance. “Is there a table or desk available?”
