wound relentlessly

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Before, before, before, he was an force, a behemoth, a titan amidst gathered shackles and tethered lines. He’d grappled and bristled and come to blows with treacheries and torture, faced down fellow demons while they came for his home, and he’d howled, roared, defied them every step of the way with bristling atrocities and wild, untamed savagery. He’d been a storm, a blizzard, a chilling, cold, vicious force shrouded in diabolical possibilities, ominous and unforgiving, paralyzing foes, causing others to quake, to whimper, to shudder in his midst. He’d been living persecution and execution, a stunning shock of force and oblivion, indifferent, intolerant, unattainable, unreachable, a bastion of strength, a paragon of nefarious properties, breathing vehemence into the very ground he walked upon. It’d been mastery of nonchalance and reticence, completely bound into apathy and indifference, letting the world waste right alongside him, beckoning bedlam, inhaling chaos and exhaling malice, menace constantly in the making. No one touched him. No one talked to him. He was nothing, nothing, nothing, and the world had been in his grasp. Inevitably, that too fell apart, but the core of his entire existence had simply been ferocity, fury, might, and wrath – And now…what was he now? In some portions, he was worthless: ignorant, inept, capable of mauling, destroying, and killing, but not much else. In another contortions, he was broken, shambled and shuffled away in the shadows of the world, waiting for something, anything, to send him elsewhere. Purpose had all but left his pursuits – because he didn’t know what to aim for, what to grab, what to snag, what to snare – there was no one to protect, no kingdom to dominate, and only the unknown stabbed into his sides. He was a vessel, he was a void, he was the abyss, choked and cloaked, suffocating beneath the weight of his faults, flaws, ideals, and the gaping ambiguities surrounding his soul. All he’d ever really done was lose. He’d become lost himself in that solitary wake of demise and deficits; reeling from one to the next, pleading and begging for things well beyond his reach. Perhaps he’d simply strived for merits and virtues he’d never deserved, too deep in the fathoms of his vitriol and vices. His gaze peeked over the tops of his knees, squaring back on Kiada as she smirked at him, as she proclaimed him a liar, as he snorted away another laugh threatening to ricochet through his chest. “Not this time,” and he meant it; he’d lied and lied and lied his way through many a plot, ruse, and scheme, meant to devastate or destroy his enemies, consign them all to the thresholds of hell, and he’d see them there eventually, when it was his time to return. There wasn’t any humor in his voice, in his chords, in the barbed wires of too many crisscrossing lines and junctures; if he could make any sense of it. “But she’s different too.” He nodded, stared at her as she kneeled beside him, and lord, he just wanted to know what she wanted from him, what he was supposed to do, where he was supposed to go – why everything had been rewritten and spat out again, clinging to the same principles, but divergent, unwinding chapters. master of nothing place of recoil and grace

Kiada