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 “It was nice, to not be alone.” The statement curled and plumed away from him without a thought, as if someone else had pulled it from the back of his throat, sent it meandering out into the open. More confusion, more torment, as his eyes drifted back to Rexanna and all her gilded comfort, the uncertainty displayed between his brows. “How do I focus on myself?” Fixation drawn on something along the counter, incapable of looking at her any longer, feeling foolish, dim, and ignorant, when he’d spent lifetime after lifetime ensuring those in his world were cared for, protected, shielded, guarded. “My time has always been for everyone else.” For the droplets of rain as they’d once cascaded around him; never drowning, always seeking, for the moon and stars and suns spinning around his eyes, while he searched for a particular spark in the sky. “They hardly ever come back to me.” He must’ve never been worth the effort, after all. He took the coffee, holding the mug to his lips with a grateful smile; expecting tea but taking the caffeine all the same. There was sweetness embedded to solidify any bitter blows, as Rex had always known, tugged and pulled along while he listened, while he dreamed. “He is a little soft.” A shrug then, not to be rude or cruel, but that maybe Chulane hadn’t experienced the world in quite the same ways they all had. Maybe it was fine. Maybe it was exactly what the Harpy needed. And as they stepped outside, into the snow, he didn’t need furs or shoes, he didn’t need anything at all but the bellowing elements coming alive before him. The snow, the glaciers, the wake of chilling, beautiful rhapsody, power and might and dominion. He breathed and there were no coils of warmth, to tell him this wasn’t real, wasn’t real, wasn’t real, but he didn’t care. One hand wrapped around his mug, the beast arched a brow at the comment about Kianzo. That particular one of Rex’s brood was not his favorite. “Bit of a whiner.” He wrinkled his nose, waited for her reaction. “Takes after his father.” His features took on a very poor impersonation of Tembovu, the other hand not occupied raised into a fist, voice attempting a low rumble, a growl, set to the fellow King’s bellows, as he'd once come bombarding into the Basin. “Where are my children?” |
Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary
