[seasonal event] fell to the top

D e i m o s

Send a heartbeat to the void that cries through you
Relive the pictures that have come to pass

He hadn’t always been this way – iron-forged and reserved, recalcitrant, diffident, and detached; there’d been days where his bright, impish smiles had eclipsed and held all the fervor, energy, of youth, bliss, and ignorance – before loss, before war, before pain and torture simply dampened, doused, and drowned it all away. The Reaper had tucked back into himself because it was comfortable there, rooted and unyielding, where no one could cut and lacerate him again, where no one could pluck away at the vulnerability, at the hurt, at the despair, where no one could see inward and hiss at the clustered darkness looming there. He iced over, became his throne of stone and glaciers, sat upon the summit and roared into the flames – watched the world crumble around him then too, as one by one couldn’t bear the sight of scythes and knives, the brooding, melancholy machinations, more weapon than human, more rime than blood. He was rubble and ruin, sculpted back together by some of his own sparse creations, and by those who glanced his way, who thought better of the mountain than he did of his own damned self. The beast was undeserving of their efforts, and he knew it, knew at the core of his embittered, rancorous, black-hearted soul that none of them should have concerned themselves with his graceless being, with his shelled, fortified figure. By all intents and purposes, he’d sent himself to rot, to wither, to decay, right alongside his brethren, aligned back to slaughter and become the grave; mime and mimic the ones he’d dug for them. But then, and then, and then, they all kept coming, tolerating, accepting, cherishing, and he had no explanation for it, no reason behind his eyelids, or thrashing about in his mind. He could not fathom why they approached him, but was so eternally grateful for it that his chest hurt. Jigano tried, and Deimos understood, comprehended it, but had so little left to offer or give. His gifts were not in discourse, not in the art of his history, not in the devilry of his past – but in action, in motives, eloquence in the oeuvre of sinister, meticulous displays. Perhaps that was why few ever indulged further than long, lingering moments, not yearning to pry his locks open, to break down the doors, the walls, and it suited him, his character, his haunting, poignant methods – when they all gave up, when they all screamed and fled, was when he could be alone. It was a defense that had worked time and time and time again. But did he want to continue on that same path – here, where he was given so many chances? Where they didn’t seem to care what kind of pathetic monster he was? The beast never asked any inquiries except those spellbinding ones meant to instigate, agitate, or grant plotting machinations; safer and safer still, to never let them see where one’s thoughts occupied and flew. He clenched his jaw and stared at the ground, stupid, numb, putting down roots because it was all he ever did. He’d be the most immobile damned thing, a forest in the trees, out of his own sheer stubbornness, so the world wouldn’t see what he hid and tucked away, where he hurt and languished. “I have been very fortunate,” he finally managed, quiet too, as if it took all of the air within his lungs to even pulse the statement into fruition. His luck hadn’t been amidst the worlds before – but here and now – with so many glancing his way. That you are not alone was a truer notion than Deimos could even manage to segment and slice apart, he nodded, thought of flames and girls who could alter into birds, of suns and moons, of stars and heavens, things he didn’t deserve but kept coming towards him. Maybe they were drawn to ineptitude. Maybe they thought he was broken. Maybe this was his way of having possibilities, in his grasp, if he would just reach out and take them. Maybe this was why he’d been brought back, to live and breathe again. Just try whispered back to him, curled in the back of his mind, until his lips mouthed on their own accord. “Not many ever bothered to approach me, before Caido.” The beast allowed the reasons why to flicker in the wind – he was certain the bard could come up with his own summations. Kiada had been among the few, seemingly entertained by the frozen, cold-blooded sovereign. Rexanna had been another, before she was gone too. “I know it is not easy. I am sorry.” For what, he couldn’t even begin to explain, but it floated in the ether, all the same, splintered and fractured, eyes still on the earth, on the soil, on the pebbles. Then he sighed, downcast, fingers gliding along the wooden confines of his basket’s handle, as if the etched snow gave him the strength and courage to continue. “If they do not bear you ill will, then I will not either.” It was an impasse, entrenched catalyst: if neither Amalia or Kiada could lay blame to Jigano for their capture, for their abductions, for whatever travesty and tribulations they faced, then it wouldn’t be his to own or hold either. Let bygone be bygones, forgiveness and absolutions, pardons and reconciliations, a heavy exhale, a lift to his gaze so it settled on the bard again. For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate