wound relentlessly

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame The ghosts flickered across his eyes, behind his lids, tearing the seams of his mind. They haunted and loomed, a network of nefarious deeds scrawled along his lineage, his lifelines, his lifetimes. His ichor was drenched in suffering, in torment, in anguish, and in perseverance, persecution, enmities, and unholy, vicious actions. But even as he saw them once more, stretched across a thousand unfurling strands, vehement and irreverent, seditious and vile, manipulative and deceitful, he’d do it all over again. The regret didn’t linger within his shuddering, shaking form. His reticence gaze would lift to the skies and howl at the heavens, his malevolent potency would reign over a land of ice and snow, his bestial machinations and movements would echo in their fervency, in their brutality. They were one and the same, intermingling webs of broken barbs and idle, listless thorns, thrust into this world because he hadn’t suffered enough for his previous actions, because hatred hadn’t been fulfilling enough, because hell spit him back out to settle the score. Do your worst he once roared at the terrains before him, and they hadn’t, they hadn’t, they hadn’t until now, when his heart was punctured and pierced again and again and again. He’d had them, everyone, everything, in his clutches, in his grasp, in those ravenous, mercenary particles throughout his system that never dreamed of giving anything up – until his last breath, until he was drawn somewhere new, somewhere foreign, somewhere trapped and scalded in his barbaric purgatory. The memories poured like rain in his senses, and he wasn’t immune to their powers, to their horrors, to the onslaught of betrayals, to the losses, to the unleashing of terror and tyranny. His hands had dug graves and buried souls and made many a martyr; it was the taste of irreverence and terror across the tip of his tongue, and he wouldn’t have been able to stop it. She’d lost someone twice too, and somehow the intertwining natures truly summed up their fraught existences across the stark, desolated plain. This is what you’ve wrought. He’d deserved it. He’d deserve it for eternity. Something inside of the Reaper twisted, almost carved a niche into his side; a daring, impudent, haughty notion sparking and incensing his lungs. Deimos didn’t know what to do with the sensation of comfort suddenly enveloping over him: animal and friend, sharing their burdens and grief. He swallowed, and his frame seemed to cease its quivering; for an instance he simply inhaled a massive breath and strung, stung, himself into the folds of silence. It was solace. It was commiseration. It was something he’d yet to earn from anyone or anything, but he took it, grabbed hold of one of her fingers and squeezed, another hand reaching for Auni because the luxere was a tether, a line, from falling completely into the darkness. You weren’t done yet, she said, and he nearly laughed. What more could he have done? How many more wars could he have waged? How many more lands could he have invaded? How many more could he have recruited to the cause, allying and tying his lands to other promised kingdoms, striving for success, for conquest, for glory and triumph to a kingdom with ambition and greed? How many more would he have needed to kill? In the back of his Machiavellian webs and ministrations though, he thought. He roamed amidst the wraiths, the phantoms, and the catacombs, searching beyond sepulchers for the hidden meaning, the depth, in the vices and vows of this world. “Perhaps we were simply meant to suffer.” The warrior laughed again, hard, crackling, and brutal, still not lifting his eyes to the scene; ashamed, ashamed, ashamed by the things he couldn’t have and would never be, not here. We make the most of it; but gods, he didn’t want to. A part of him simply yearned to wallow there, in his misery, in his melancholy, all over again until something lacerated his soul and he was sent straight back to hell. But another portion to him, the fire, the blood, the incensed, infuriated contortions, craved naught more than to renew his vigilance, his second opportunity to lay waste, to devastate, to ruin, or to simply live. Here, he can give much more than he takes. Here, he can try and be something other than the coldblooded fiend, the dark, stark Reaper in his northern territory, molded and melded out of iron and oblivion, waiting to consume the world. Here, he can strive for all the things he didn’t have before, and the nuances, the notions, in between. He raised his head, tilting it to the side so he can look upon her, proffering what he could, what he had. “Your mother lives here too.” master of nothing place of recoil and grace

Kiada