Deimos the Reaper You can't take back the cards you've dealt on this long and lonely road to hell the throne must be such a sad and lonely place The wind howled outside, and for once in his life, he wasn’t so lost. These were ghosts and machinations, appearances of dreams and memories and nothing more than the bombardment of things once cherished and now completely gone. Between the familiar outstretches of snow, the fire crackling in the hearth, the mystical containment of deadly, nefarious power within his grasp, and a crown not worn, it could’ve been a distant haze. A sight unseen. A polished fragment and filament of everything torn to shreds. Oh, but not now. Piercing eyes lifted from the heavy slumber, from the depths of a world that hadn’t obliterated him yet, that hadn’t torn him to pieces, that hadn’t assailed and robbed him of everything. There were mountains in the distance and monoliths forged, cracked and forlorn, but still just the same, a part of the horizon, a part of familiarity. He rose from the couch, turning to find her, gilded and known, favored and beloved in not so many words. The beast took the chiding with a snort. “I am sorry.” And he didn’t know why, but he had to say it, compelled to over and over and over again. “Tired.” Of something. Of everything. Caught in the abyss; suddenly overburdened and lost. |
Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary
