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 A touch he couldn’t feel, but maybe imagine, in the course of his dreams and sorrows, in the pang and clench of his heart in the deep midst and mist of slumber. “Just me and my ghosts,” he smiled, but it was forced, something welling up behind his eyes, and when he blinked, they were gone, eyes maneuvering towards the expanse, a comfort, an ease, as his head sought her shoulder. Because it was heavy, and everything hurt, and for a second nothing did. Nobody remains to protect you. Was it because they didn’t care? Because they thought he was strong enough to withstand every storm, every tempest, thrown his way? Because they couldn’t see him eroding? Because there was no one left who gave a damn? “Sometimes I want the world to burn down around me.” His cranium moved away and off her intangible wake, tall again, but not bent, just a little broken. “Sometimes I just want to rest.” To drift into a time, a place, where he could remember how to stand on his own. Did he yearn to be an unreachable, unattainable wall again? The demon in the shadows? More than a tired, exhausted Sword? More than a silent, callous Reaper? “Sometimes I do not know what I want at all.” Not used to yearning for anything but power, might, and precision. A shrug, as she pulled out of his orbit, and he instantly wanted to snatch her back, to have some greedy, avaricious second, but there was the snow to distract, to maneuver within and know as well as the back of his own hand; to emerge into its filaments and breathe again. A sip of coffee, eyelids hanging heavy, before rising once more, half a smirk embedded at the knife comment; and then encouraging a laugh at the ridiculous impression, of a past that didn’t haunt. “I cannot fathom what you saw in him.” A wrinkle to his nose, settling in amusement, in more walking into footfalls of snow, and leaving no path behind. Then her words pierced, and he couldn’t look at her, couldn’t do anything but stare at the ground, at the snow, at the powder collecting around his legs. “I do. I blame myself every day. It should not have happened.” He should’ve known better. He should’ve understood. Thereafter, his head twisted back over his shoulder, and he stared at gilded Penumbras and former Thieves. “I will get you back. I promise.” |
Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary
