The battlefield was not the same: no, he relished on an open plain, on an enemy he could see between sword and shield, a balance of vehemence and fury. The dark, acrimonious unknown wasn’t his preference, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and any commander would’ve sunk their teeth into his callous sway. Think then, boy, they would’ve howled, always one bellow away from becoming wolves themselves, and the dull thud of the golem reaching for Wessex propelled him further (he didn’t ask if she was all right; he could hear her breathing in the dark, and it was enough for the seconds layered thereafter). He was more than a warrior, more than a soldier, in those moments thereafter; one more monster, fangs ivory in the shadows, in the darkness, untamed and ruthless – there was a reason he’d earned the title the Reaper, why adversaries’ eyes had widened in his presence, why more than one had cowered as he grew closer and closer.
It was a beautiful, blistering rage filling him, curling and coiling through his veins, along his muscles, his skin, his sinew. He was an immoral, iniquitous cretin, drinking, swallowing, and consuming the chaos, the bedlam, thriving on its ramparts, om its fortifications, on the gloom, on the intrepid, Stygian veils, how they tried to thread a death knell through the cellar dungeon, and how he refused to let them. You will not stop me seethed in his mind, a wicked, simmering fire, a bastion of embers contorted behind his tongue, the bestial march of life draining away, across his fingertips, along his boundaries, until his entity was simply execution and annihilation, a demonic promise, a bloodied conviction. The challenge fueled, incensed, kindled such a savage barbarity in his bones; his father would’ve been proud, his mother would’ve shook her head, and all his comrades, the ones he buried at the edge of the fields or the beasts he carried home, would’ve cheered, clamored, and rebelled beside their brother; a vicious, remorseless, ferocious revolution.
The first action was simple but necessary, hurling rocks in different directions; a massive one towards the door, intending to create a hole, for wood could be replaced, but Wessex couldn’t be. If Amalia required apologies he’d attempt them, but life was life, and he was only striving to save one at the moment – hands grabbing hold of the doors once, twice, tugging, clawing, so there could be some damned light to guide the stone to its death, so it could be shattered, so it could dissipate into ash and soot.
But it moved in the dark, and his invocations, his rage, had directed it; he saw his chance in the same way that many warriors had – ensuring victory no matter the cost. His piercing gaze caught the spiraling sway of its limbs, how it moved swiftly, quickly, despite its ridiculous size, but he wouldn’t be fast enough. This would be okay. He’d endure. He’d survive. Deimos had felt pain, agonizing, blunt, keen, and cruel a thousand times before, and he’d do it again; it’d been his chosen occupation.
The limb connected with his right shoulder and he couldn’t stop the growl, the hiss, or the reverberating anguish pervading from his flesh. It brought white spots to his eyes, a gasping, grating breath from his lungs, and he wasn’t sure, along the rubble and ruin, if he’d cried out. But at the same time, the rocky fist struck against the wooden frame, and for the briefest of moments, he thought he saw a glimmer, a shard, of light piercing through the door. Was there a crack? A splintering?
Deimos lowered his figure and willed himself to move, faster, faster, faster, hands struggling to grasp hold of the golem’s feet, to ensure it’d stay put, to pulse more and more nefarious enchantments into the beast’s form.
