crowned hopeless

DEIMOS Delivered from the blasts But first – before all the things came tumbling to a severing point, before all the rage built a crescendo, a catalyst, in his figure, in his form, in his throat, before he ventured deeper into thickets and lines and tore apart the masses. The replays slid down his spine, chilled him from the inside out, glacial beast sent straight into the slaughter again, where he was meant to either descend into his catacombs, or conspire, unravel, devastate those who’d dared to take, retrieve, retrieve, retrieve. The Reaper stuck himself into the glade, where the rippling grasses parted and the mass of stones had fallen to bits and pieces, clustered together in a patchwork pattern. It was an unusual notion, even for him, who’d committed to these actions time and time again without anything but the weight of silence, who had knelt in the pouring rain, begging for absolution and for something, anything to save a being he cherished. She’d died, and he’d drowned once more, struggling to come up for air, to the surface, allowing the world to consume him. He’d sunk into the fathoms and depths of his mourning, shifted away from any gods, from any witnesses, from any deities who’d thought him unworthy, inept, undeserving. Yet, in these quiet, craven, stark, and desolate moments, it was the only thing he had. It was never for him, but for them - the names and faces contorting through his mind. Kiada, harpy-girl and strong, enduring woman, a little beast who’d recognized him for what he was, who’d fought and fought, who’d never backed down, who’d persisted through doldrums, mayhem, and brutality. Amalia, sunshine and boldness, unfolding those bright, radiant smiles and wings to the heavens, allowing him to bask in her presence for a little while. Even to those he didn’t know, lurking in the bitter, rancorous void, trapped and ensnared there, pressed into the fires and foils. Perhaps this was his gift to them, trying, striving, to bring them back from the unknown. Perhaps they’d fail. Perhaps they’d triumph. Deimos swallowed down the bile suddenly closing over his throat, and knelt before the stones. He bent his head, breathed, inhaled the blistering rage, exhaled the restraint, the calm, the composure he struggled to embody. His hands shook as they touched over one of the rocks, as they gave one of his created blades, fresh from his palms, from his invocations, and nestled it along crag and boulder, a proffering, a symbol of what he was and could be. His tones weren’t quite reverential, but hushed all the same, prayers that had gone rusty and unused for a long time. “All I have to offer you is my strength.” Please, he begged, he craved, he hoped, and he didn’t know what this world was turning him into, to be genuflecting in front of gods who must have laughed at his efforts, who must have shook their skulls and chuckled into the breeze, who must have thought foolish mortals were a dime a dozen. “Please let them be safe.” I’m coming for them. the last of a line of lasts

Do what you like the breeze seemed to say. We who have all the strength in this world, need none of yours the stones hummed. Though I do like your muscles, whispered the trees. And so it was, that although the outlander drew the mild attention of the wilderness around him, but not of the divine presence that he sought.