dominoes of indiscretions down

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame The Reaper didn’t elaborate on all the times before these moments – struck by the rain, its peace, its serenity, its tranquil, uplifting qualities, repose when he’d rarely understood the ministrations or machinations of anything other than brutality. They intertwined with heartache: gone and back again, woven instances spread across oracles and showers, cascading drops of watery abyss, strength stitched in between the lingering, tremulous details, everything granted then taken, taken, taken. It’d been instances stretched where he wished and dreamed, hoped and prayed, and then snagged, snarled, gnarled, retreating back into his gloomy, grim ramparts, where the world couldn’t touch him again, where no one would bother with his looming vessel, with his seething designation. Then it happened once more; after he was dead and reborn, when lines dared to repeat, and he was wholly unaware, following those same intervals and calamities, the faults in star-crossed sunbursts – completely incapable of seeing where it was all going. The showers repaired, mended, and assuaged the broken, blistered man; and then it fell apart, seam after seam, strand after strand. No matter how he’d begged or pleaded, nothing came to fruition but death, the cycle continued, naught to alter it but his rage, his distortion – and landing here. He didn’t trust anything about these woods, and advanced swiftly, quickly, back the way they’d come, before weaknesses and vulnerabilities were exploited again beneath a billion more eyes and brambles. But he listened too – didn’t ignore, ensured Kiada was still tucked at his side, and he’d drag her out if need be, so the suffering ended, so she was safe despite his stupid curiosity. The beast knew the name she spoke though, Ru’in, recalled the child rampaging along the glacial walls and vivid ice, striving to make a name for himself amidst the mountains and summits. He’d had all the potential in the world then too – time, prowess, the wherewithal and conviction to grow; he wasn’t entirely surprised Kiada had been enamored with the lad. She’d much of the same: fire and brimstone, embers and coals yearning to be kindled, for an outlet, for a time and place to combust. Perhaps he was the one she’d lost twice too – caught back in the crosshairs of time and its skewed visions. “He was good,” he recalled, a quiet murmur to match hers, in case she wanted to shy away, in case she didn’t want to hear, in case she was still locked in the discord and distortion of memories. He could've been something he might've said. He couldn't been fantastic, he might've compelled - but that sounded even more painful in his head, wouldn't be repeated out in the ether, in the open. They inched closer and closer to the edge, to the fringes, to the aperture from where they’d begun, the light ahead, spiraling away from canopies. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace