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 Gods. The simple intonation of the deities made his lip curl. He’d had enough interaction with any celestial beings, or lack thereof, for a damned lifetime. In his childhood, he’d never been totally reverent, but had done as his mother or father asked, attending to shrines amidst Isilme when told, proffering artifacts when rituals demanded, adhering to those standard beliefs. Perhaps, over time, the gods simply came to ignore and abandon him, watched him from afar and knew he wasn’t worthy of their time, of their dedication, of their musings or wisdom. He’d slaughtered instead of dousing the world with piety. He’d run his sword through enemies instead of catering to a divine beast. He’d howled and roared in defiance against too many things, became wild, savage, a feral, predacious thing, gone and gone again. There’d only been one time thereafter when he asked them for anything, deep in the drowning fields, where one life was hastening to its end and he’d tried so desperately, so hard, to make them come, to make them see that she didn’t deserve to be vanquished. He’d fallen to his knees and begged, gave them everything he thought they’d desire, but in the end, it’d been for naught – and the silence had been a death seal, an omen, an ominous plunge into who he’d become all over again.
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Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary
