dominoes of indiscretions down

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame If the buoyant, delicate lights were innocent, they could have continued onwards, marked their spots amidst the woods and advanced, explorers in the mist. He should’ve known better, shouldn’t have even stopped, shouldn’t have ceased his movements, progressing into hallowed reaches and hollowed, carved out halls, before the spellbinding allure worked its magic, its invocations. Perhaps simply by spotting its essence, they’d already been selected as prey, victims, a siege on minds and bodies. An eldritch whisper curled against his frame, hauntingly familiar, an ache in his lungs, in his heart. Deimos, it rang, clear as a bell, rain in his eyes, tucked behind the clear depths of blue, water flowing over rocks and rubble. He swallowed down the suffocating pulse suddenly eclipsing his throat, rankled a gasping breath over the drowning lines barreling their way into his memories. “Keep going,” he ordered, because maybe she could hear it too, and he didn’t want anything more to come of this – how many god damn times did he have to suffer before the universe had its fill of toying with him? Deimos it called again, and he turned his head out of instinct, lured and beguiled without his will, without his power, without his practice, control, and precision; the very pride of his existence. It didn’t give her form – still a graceful, blinding, blinking radiance nestled in the shadows, a picture perfect regime of blamelessness, and he clenched his teeth, twisted back away, fully intending to march out of there, head down, feet extended into the undergrowth. He couldn’t look at Kiada. Oh, you’re the Reaper. curled and coiled against his senses, tranquility and serenity, a barrage of their first meeting slamming into his incarnation, toying with him, making him clench his jaw, grind his teeth, desperate to ignore the echo of a time died, buried, gone, and mind-numbingly painful. I’ve heard of you! came jubilantly, raindrops and showers on blossoms and moss, and his breath shuddered again, hands balling into fists, tugging at a few loose branches suddenly in his way. You were one of the few who came back. A pause, as if she were turning her head to gaze out into the riverbed, tossing a few petals and blossoms to be amongst the lily pads; ghosts, so many ghosts. Who lived. It was a knife in his chest, a burning, bestial thing rampaging straight into his heart, torturous, a gamble for any spirit to proclaim and dare, but it was their woods, their copse, their glade, their carefully-laden trap. When he finally turned back to Kiada, form chiseled and sculpted as if it were stone, marble, a stoic, detached statue, he loosened his mouth, his jaw, for a scarce second, shaking his head in protest. “Do not listen to it.” Underneath, he was unraveling, an inward eldritch embrace into ruin and abominations, furious and seething that the world dared to use her like a weapon, that he dared to sink into it, one foot mindlessly trailing after the particles of light. Let me see your hands, she’d once uttered, and it bounded into him now, a memorized form of their encounter, his scars evident for the sovereignty to see, to use, to wield. He could hear a deeper voice resounding too – but couldn’t place it, couldn’t find it, couldn’t do anything but unravel. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace

Kiada