fair warning

D e i m o s

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

Deimos, through his experiences in life, had always utilized force, intimidation, means to an end; plans and calculations might have improvised in ruses, in snares, or in inveigling an individual, but it had always come down to strength, vehemence, and some form of violence. He wanted fear to strike the heart of another when they saw him looming. He wanted an adversary to shudder, shake, quiver, wonder what they stood up against. He wanted an enemy to know he was not something to bow, to break, or to simply meander in the squall; he was a tempest, a storm, kindling ready to be set apart, eager to preside amidst the inferno. It wasn’t kind, it wasn’t moral, and it wasn’t virtuous, sliding along those carnivorous stones and iniquitous pillars as if he’d been melded from the devil’s backbone. Amalia didn’t execute these particular methods, and despite striving to train her in weapon dynamics, didn’t have the heart to execute, diminish, or demean through rugged blades or devastating wounds. Her modicum was of benediction and faith; the Reaper had gone on too long in paradoxical, hostile worlds to live in the same way – putting credence in himself and in his brethren – not the Gods, not another beacon. They were allowed to differ; it only bothered him now when he was left with naught to go on and everything revolving, descending, into some chaotic upheaval. He was left to pace floorboards and raise his hackles, not yearning to step on the baker’s toes, motives, or ambitions, but tied and tethered to his own form of vengeance and renewal. It might’ve been foolish. He’d rushed headlong into the Fae woods without much preparation at all; save for the wisdom of others, and luck had prevailed there. All the other circumstances were murky though; the Flinthopper, the Spire…fully justified and understanding that Amalia was trying to protect them – by seemingly exposing herself to the elements. That wasn’t how it should’ve gone. Caught and webbed in his own state, battering, beating, buffeting against a world he couldn’t fully comprehend (a lion’s den but with less soldiers and more diplomacy, more politicians, more than just the craft of swords protruding from another’s chest; and maybe more at stake). He had some other options, curling and contorting in his mind; last resorts that might only be good for a single use before everything fell and flickered apart. He only briefly smiled at Jigano’s insinuation of a decent backup plan (the warrior would, could, relish embers curling over manors and castles; a moment in savoring the end). The humor managed to meander its way to him, catching over figments of grins and snickers, however poorly managed their lives had become. “Perhaps some time in there will do you good.” He laughed, only a dark chuckle, before rising from where he’d been leaning, putting the leather aside. For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate