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 Deimos had never been beguiling; it wasn’t in his barbaric nature to bewitch or charm. A majority of his lifetime had been spent doing the exact opposite: his imposing figure cutting through bands of miscreants, inept individuals, or paths of war, and most of the time the world obliged. Several had always managed to whittle their way into his brand of society though, but he never figured or presumed they were enamored; they saw him as protection, as a guard, as one of those living, breathing weapons so when the earth turned against them, he’d buffer the wind, the blades, the anguish and pain. Do your worst, they’d say with a laugh because they couldn’t, and his apathetic gaze would haunt thresholds, slash a blade, lacerate, devastate, and ruin. The Reaper didn’t have a siren lure or a captivating, entrancing, devastating balance; he was eldritch and titan, sent from the flames of his father’s ambitions and the stone crafting of his mother’s sagacity. Perhaps if others had a death wish, they could witness him as captivating, capable of rendering their hopes and dreams into beckoning silence, a hushed, quiet demise. Overall, he’d spent a multitude of time casting everyone and anyone away, because it made life easier, to sink into the listless, languid tides, to eventually disappear and dissipate into the ether, dust and bone, forgotten, already accepting the consignment of hell and oblivion at his fingertips. He wasn’t appealing. He wasn’t even amusing. He was the darker threads in a series of iniquitous veils, tied off and frayed at the ends, knotted between partitions of immorality and nefariousness; the biting, savage means and purpose behind driving onslaughts and terrors. He could be treachery. He could be deceit. He could be cold-blooded machinations and utter indifference.
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Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary
