[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

Truth be told, he could have easily blended violence and ferocity into the heart of the Fae forest. Had they not been liberated by Arduinna, there was no telling what he would’ve done in his vehement desperation; a clawing, violent ache and act twisted in his gut, in his motions, in his movements. It could’ve been a bewildering haze, then regret and inefficiency, the sort of ultimatum they couldn’t return from, a herald, a beacon, of malice, menace, and age-old retribution. He’d done so many times: his bonds a word, a vow, an assurance, a damned, blistering oath, striving to protect, to undermine, to devastate and ruin anything daring to touch one of his own (down, down, down the rabbit hole, where they hated and despised him, no matter what he did for them, their own weapon they thought they could store tightly in a sheath, summon off his throne when the timing was right, when his villainy was required, when their hands wouldn’t dare get as dirty as his). The Reaper had managed to ascertain control and composure again, briefly, barely, and once everyone was free, liberated, had he even managed to breathe easier once more; the circumstances a looming chassis, an eerie, enigmatic labyrinth. But who was to say someone else would not? “True. Could there be a meeting about the Fae? A way to spread information we have gained? An addition to your Loreseekers?” Or was that too much – an invitation to disaster again? Should they let the rest of the world do as they pleased, scatter like stars, like mayhem, like bedlam? His fingers sketched over the edges of wood, the fringes of his basket, before coming to play on the stump he’d occupied, keeping him grounded when he either wanted to seethe or brood. “What do they do with them?” For it was as Jigano had said – a bolder, more affronted individual would take and take and take, leave nothing behind, cruel and unholy, iniquitous, a splendor of spells meant to forget anything had ever happened, taken place. And would it be wrong to ask the Fae, to constantly question? Would they even answer? It was a series of cycles and inquiries, over and over again, more calculations and rumors than actual responses – no stone left unturned, but also unanswered, dangling in the wind like a noose. By Jigano’s assumptions, Deimos could comprehend Delah’s stance. He’d done the same – a guard, a rampart, a set of munitions along his borders and crowed gates, no threat incoming that he couldn’t see, that he couldn’t vanquish, that he couldn’t ruin after giving a single, solitary warning – and some had pressed, some had laughed, some had mocked – and then they’d either been dead, maimed, or chucked aside, fallen by their own follies. Perhaps it was the along those tethers and lines now, except they were the interlopers, the trespassers, the dumb, doomed, damned ones; the vexation and frustration clear. He’d never been convinced by those inept and stupid enough to try him; others came eventually, when he’d eroded and waned, when he and they both had something to gain instead of curious intrusion and invasion. “It is understandable,” he mentioned first, brows furrowed again. “When you want to protect what is yours.” The warrior didn’t mention his stance as monarch, sovereign, and icy king; the staff in his hand, the crown tilted and thorned, but lent more towards experiences, the otherworldly embodiment of a kingdom long since tarnished and destroyed – his body lain in its mountain tomb, born again to do something; a purpose, Kiada had said. “We are a threat, for change could be a peril, a hazard, to her people.” They’d taken the Spire down. They’d lifted the barrier. They’d whittled away at the fringes of the forest already, their prying eyes and discordant grasps. Despite innocence in the intrigue, it was still a potency, a potential, for her citizens to be diminished or destroyed; those inevitable movements and motions – once one started, the rest were likely to follow. “I am not certain our goodwill would be useful in any direction.” His mouth drew together, mind struggling to come up with some sort of solution: fully aware Amalia would still rush headlong into the clover, into the canopies, Kiada would pursue and do the same, and the cycle would continue if something wasn’t altered or changed. “If we could show we mean no harm…” and his voice trailed off; because he wasn’t certain if it could happen. For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate