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 “And you did.” A smile, instilled with pride for her, for her accomplishments, for escaping, for evading, for finding power and dominion. For control in the game, for however long it lasted. How did one forget consequences, when they’d spent every moment of their adult lives calculating? Orchestrating machinations? Thinking of preferred angles, and still forgoing, forgetting, the specifics of misfortune? But another promise instilled in the nod of his head. “Okay.” Live; because he had before and dragged himself into the trenches, into warfare, into nothingness, until he burned at both ends and no one thought, sought, to curb the flames; watched him wither, watched him decay, watched him perish right before their eyes. For himself, because no one else would. The Reaper snorted in response to her comment, some shudder to his shoulders (likely some aspect of revulsion). “I hated that he dragged you away.” From here. From him. From a world that treasured her, only to go to the misty void, where she was just another one of the Edge’s harem. Rexanna had always been worth far, far more. Coffee downed, the dregs left on the porch next to hers, when ethereal filaments surrounded, pervaded, on the edges of his eyes, on the sunshine horizon, on the ruin of primordial echoes. He listened, as badly as he wanted to be swallowed down into the snow, nodding to accept it, uncertain how to take the blame off his heart, off his shoulders, off his spine. Chin and jaw lifted, to stare into wraiths and phantoms and fractions of imagination he’d yearn to believe in – nodding into her hand when all he wanted to do was break down and sob. “That is what we do.” It choked and haunted, but the vow was there. I will get you back, I will get you back, I will get you back, and you will be free, one last time. Released, ushered away for moments, not remembering how he acquired towels or spare clothing, to return with one draped over brawn and another extended for her. Stop blaming yourself ran down his backbone, and he tried to believe in it. “The hot springs,” and he permitted her to lead. |
Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary
