our terrible story of survival

Deimos the Reaper master of nothing place, of recoil and grace Loss had shaped them, framed them, and resculpted them – carved them out what little victories they’d managed to hold onto for small, insignificant moments, the fall always the hardest, the plummet always the deepest. Their fathoms had been whittled and brutalized into toxins and unholy measures, the stars no longer so bright, the horizons no longer so inspiring. Day after day they had strived, and for what? For the death of friends? For the denizens of failure? For the plagues to coil around their eyes, for the darkness to come in the corners of their eyes? For the destruction of worlds, for the miring of other kingdoms, for the desecration of ghosts that haunted every step of the way? They rose and they fell and they still fought on, racing to pick up the pieces before the rest of the mountains saw, before flaws could become fissures. They weren’t allowed to flicker apart, they weren’t permitted to break, they weren’t sanctioned to sink. So they stood, stalwart and demanding, forgetting collapses, forgoing the weight of terror, treachery, and the whole of a dominion across their backs, the icy expanse of a throne behind their spines, the things no one was meant to overcome alone. And here, here, were they meant to recover? Find themselves again, reborn and renewed? Resurrection had been a puzzle he’d yet to fully unravel, uncertain, unware, of just how or why he was chosen to mark this damned earth again – why he fettered his way through the same patterns, the same designs, wound his fate into shattering glances and molten devastation, why now, after lifetimes of ensuring his unholy intentions were met on fields of battle, on torrential, tempestuous plains, he was liberated and free. It was new and he feared it was fleeting too, like so many other wondrous, sublime things, meant to be savored for an instant before disappearing into ruins and ash. It was why he held, grasped, and consumed; afraid, afraid, afraid, that it would be lost to him forever. The best of hellos indeed, with his throat swallowing down the bile cloaking over his vocals, with the range of revival still in his stony wares, taking and taking and taking like a rapacious, greedy cretin, wondering at his fortunes all over again. The Reaper, the Sword, the fool, could only nod at her again, no words comparable to those already granted and given. Deimos didn’t miss the laughter strung along at her first look into his house – the weapons adorning the walls was simply habitual, routine, and normal, more so now that he was capable of creating his own. He arched a brow, daring her to say something about them, but instead, he turned back to her and saw beatific smiles and warmth, extending his in return with a shake of his beastly cranium again, forgoing fragmenting once more, listening to her. She’d already seen Rexanna and Kiada – he’d been last on the list (and probably rightfully so), but didn’t bear ill will or judgment on being concluding measure. But his eyes narrowed as her voice broke, and then his head reared back in understanding, opting to keep himself busy with maneuvering the latest dagger off his table, gesturing for her to sit if she wished. Then he meandered closer to the hearth, supplying the bristling fire with more wood, before glancing back at her. Ru’in, lost during Long Night, one of her children, and Deimos likely would never understand the notions behind the loss of a child; especially with the number of times it had occurred. It was like a loop, a noose, a coil, a cycle of events and tragedies, sputtering and stirring. “I am sorry,” he admitted; that the door hadn’t been opened for the boy, that there’d been a note, a gift, a proposal for the Harpy and nothing more – that naught could be done but either wallow in its barren grief or let time knit over the scars. His eyes shifted back to the flames, studying, examining, a procession of apprehension notching its way into his bones again, missing her subdued smile, but not the proffered tunes. At that, the warrior reeled back from the blaze, his eyes glancing upon her again and again. More than I deserve crossed over his mind, but he couldn’t say it, couldn’t slash against the benedictions in their entities. “Yes,” his vocals curled in agreement, simple and just and matter of fact. He would hold onto those gifts tightly, for as long as he possibly could. Curiosity segmented him, rummaging past her again and into his kitchen, motioning over whatever wares and food he had available. “Are you hungry?” It was another offer, a bestowal, before leaning against the counter, examining and scrutinizing, inquiry getting the best of him. “What are you going to be up to now?” What schemes and tactics would they immerse themselves within?

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