DEIMOS
the reaper
There were days where Deimos had charged down the mountainside, persistent, a predator chasing prey, nothing at his back but the wind, but the stars, but the peaks. It’d never been a thought for himself – but those of his kingdom threatened, by shadows, by grasping hands and claws, by the ramifications of some other treacherous whim. No one would’ve cared if he disappeared, lost beneath savage predilections, brazen, emboldened rapacity, and daring blackguards. No one would’ve have gone to find him, the living, breathing weapon, finally buried in a tomb somewhere, irreverence and debts paid back in full; blood in the water, bones bleached on the paths. He made very little difference except in protection and brutality, those moments scattered along cliffs and glaciers, integral only to mercenary motivations, while the rest of the world changed, shifted, and evolved; he adapted to further desolation, to ice, to rancor.
Now, now he couldn’t because he had too much and he didn’t want any of it to leave, to disappear.
Maybe there were too many things to do in this world, to ever believe in repose. One could find it in less bitter, rancorous seasons, where the end didn’t seem so beckoning or looming, when the defiance wasn’t so vivid, when each individual had taken a collective sigh of relief, work done and accomplished. As soon as it was in the palm of one’s hand, it was gone quickly thereafter, and somewhere along the lines they must’ve missed it – between Zariah’s disappearance, musical crowns, abdications and rebellions, blights and poison and dying stars – the opportunities had been sizzled, frayed, and stranded. It was too late to wish, yearn, and long for them to return. They’d already come upon a new cycle, a looming, stark shroud, with stones, with marble, with known dangers and unknown omens. The chances were gone, fleeting.
He watched and waited again, brewing back into silence, and she must’ve done the same; conforming into hushed realms. He hated it – how the strings of serenity had all been destroyed and discarded because of his proclamation, and maybe he shouldn’t have come here and ruined the spell; perhaps he should’ve just gone into the tower and when he didn’t return…
His eyes and head dropped down, staring at the counter, at the tables, and then at the floor, listening, breathing, incapable of cutting the tension. He’d instigated it, and was being lacerated by it now, the soft oh in frozen motions, the inevitability of her discontent, how he really couldn’t solve any of it – damned and doomed to walk down the steps, straight into oblivion, all because of the enchantments sizzling between his veins.
Her quietude was damning, and he briefly wondered if that was how everyone else felt when he rendered into soundlessness; except hers was more threatening, more ominous, more daunting, so infrequent. The beast wanted to do something, taut and rigid, but then a calm clarity seemed to part from her mouth, a singular question. His eyes narrowed, and a sigh pulsed through his chest. “As soon as I can get fire from Rory.” Which seemed a strange statement, until he rifled through his pockets and produced the amulet Remi had made; laying it across the counter, the onyx stone beaming back at him. “Remi and I have already created the gas masks.” He paused, suddenly the one trying to fill the void, the abyss. “Zuriel and Isla will come too. We will leave them on the stairs and heal when necessary.” Because it would be, because they were going into an abyss they already knew well. Then the monolith didn’t know what else to add, the apple in his hands forgotten, only lifting his eyes to look back at her.
Now, now he couldn’t because he had too much and he didn’t want any of it to leave, to disappear.
Maybe there were too many things to do in this world, to ever believe in repose. One could find it in less bitter, rancorous seasons, where the end didn’t seem so beckoning or looming, when the defiance wasn’t so vivid, when each individual had taken a collective sigh of relief, work done and accomplished. As soon as it was in the palm of one’s hand, it was gone quickly thereafter, and somewhere along the lines they must’ve missed it – between Zariah’s disappearance, musical crowns, abdications and rebellions, blights and poison and dying stars – the opportunities had been sizzled, frayed, and stranded. It was too late to wish, yearn, and long for them to return. They’d already come upon a new cycle, a looming, stark shroud, with stones, with marble, with known dangers and unknown omens. The chances were gone, fleeting.
He watched and waited again, brewing back into silence, and she must’ve done the same; conforming into hushed realms. He hated it – how the strings of serenity had all been destroyed and discarded because of his proclamation, and maybe he shouldn’t have come here and ruined the spell; perhaps he should’ve just gone into the tower and when he didn’t return…
His eyes and head dropped down, staring at the counter, at the tables, and then at the floor, listening, breathing, incapable of cutting the tension. He’d instigated it, and was being lacerated by it now, the soft oh in frozen motions, the inevitability of her discontent, how he really couldn’t solve any of it – damned and doomed to walk down the steps, straight into oblivion, all because of the enchantments sizzling between his veins.
Her quietude was damning, and he briefly wondered if that was how everyone else felt when he rendered into soundlessness; except hers was more threatening, more ominous, more daunting, so infrequent. The beast wanted to do something, taut and rigid, but then a calm clarity seemed to part from her mouth, a singular question. His eyes narrowed, and a sigh pulsed through his chest. “As soon as I can get fire from Rory.” Which seemed a strange statement, until he rifled through his pockets and produced the amulet Remi had made; laying it across the counter, the onyx stone beaming back at him. “Remi and I have already created the gas masks.” He paused, suddenly the one trying to fill the void, the abyss. “Zuriel and Isla will come too. We will leave them on the stairs and heal when necessary.” Because it would be, because they were going into an abyss they already knew well. Then the monolith didn’t know what else to add, the apple in his hands forgotten, only lifting his eyes to look back at her.
I am comfortable with violence
