DEIMOS
the reaper
Communication had always been one of his biggest flaws: words strained, rendered only when he felt the need, otherwise impassive, otherwise stoic, otherwise drawn into a reservoir of thoughts, phrases and syllables collected for the next interval. It was difficult to surmise everything and anything; so he rarely tried, brewing in silence, in fortitudes, regaining those glacial walls everyone knew he hid behind. Then no one could hurt, could maim, could devastate, could ruin, could bludgeon with vulnerabilities, with spoken vows, with broken reassurances. The only sentence he’d managed to utter here and now had been a colossal mistake, misinterpreted and disregarded in a passionate display of feathers and fangs, of fur and vitriol, of all the vehemence he’d always encouraged, all the convictions, faith, and belief – but blistering back at him.
It was the second time in a matter of days that his speech had been altered, reformed, for someone else’s prerogative. A pattern, a cycle; in the end, if these had been the occasions and circumstances, and he the common factor - it must have been him at fault.
This was why he closed himself off. This was why he built up fortifications. This was why his expressions turned to ice and stone, cool, calm, chilling, a vibrancy of acrimony only on the inward slope of his heart, his lungs, his bones, his soul. Because this hurt. Because this lacerated, because this anguished. The enmity and discomfort crawled there now, visibly recoiling, tangibly pressing behind one of the many thresholds he’d laid down for her and slamming the door shut, safer without the exposure, without the shame, without the scathing nuances flying at him.
From her.
Colder and colder still, the depths of his eyes riveted back to hers – the tempestuous storm raging in their center, all the chiseled dormancies, all the restless intrigues, all the exhaustion and fatigue and the burdens of the world pressing down along the cluster of blue. He wondered if they would ever be beyond misunderstandings, or if they should’ve simply always hovered in mischief, away from the disasters, from the mayhem pushing and pulling them along. He wondered if he could phrase anything else as poorly as the previous statement, if they were revolving around and around and around the unspoken quandaries because it was easier than diving headfirst into what wasn’t being said out loud. He wondered if anything he said ever really mattered, or if it just bit and tore more, prospering acceptance, watching it become a spark to kindling.
The sword breathed, keen and blunt, but not baring his edges and fringes at her. He dropped the apple entirely, and reached across the counter to ensnare one of her hands, the claws and talons digging into flesh. “That is not what I meant.” His voice was calm but his hands were shaking, whether with rage, with consternations, with upheavals, or a combination of everything clustered and coiled within. He sunk into the smoke, the fumes, the fire, because it was what he’d always done, for an eternity, for lifetimes, for seasons and cycles, allowed her vehemence to pierce and pulse and pervade, swallowing the agony. “Is that what I said? That you were not enough? Were those the words that came out of my mouth?” Because he’d be damned if another being sought to snare him into a web, into a trap, into specious depths - never had he ever insinuated that she wasn’t enough, for him, for anyone, for the world. He’d actively encouraged her to pierce and to devastate, to ravage and savage, to be bold, to be audacious, to be strong. Had his support ever gone away? Had his devotion ever swayed?
Did she think so little of him?
Maybe he was right, and he wasn’t worth it in the end – undeserving, inept, ineffectual, everything he’d ever proffered cold, unbidden things – maybe she saw that now.
“I am terrified for you, and for everyone else going with us, because of the things that linger in this world, because of the danger around every corner. Because you have died before, and so have I.” His eyes narrowed, and the clamor stoked, fueled, funneled, rapacious, reverberating behind his teeth, along his tongue. “I only wanted you prepared. With a dagger, with a shield, something.”
Not like this; not bashing and tormenting one another.
He hung his head then, tired, the overwhelming weight pressing over shoulders and down the length of his spine – always a ferocious force, but capable of bending and breaking too. But his words rang loud and clear, so she could hear them over the drums of her anger, over the tension mounting and skimming along the bakery walls. “You are more than enough.” I am the one who is not.
It was the second time in a matter of days that his speech had been altered, reformed, for someone else’s prerogative. A pattern, a cycle; in the end, if these had been the occasions and circumstances, and he the common factor - it must have been him at fault.
This was why he closed himself off. This was why he built up fortifications. This was why his expressions turned to ice and stone, cool, calm, chilling, a vibrancy of acrimony only on the inward slope of his heart, his lungs, his bones, his soul. Because this hurt. Because this lacerated, because this anguished. The enmity and discomfort crawled there now, visibly recoiling, tangibly pressing behind one of the many thresholds he’d laid down for her and slamming the door shut, safer without the exposure, without the shame, without the scathing nuances flying at him.
From her.
Colder and colder still, the depths of his eyes riveted back to hers – the tempestuous storm raging in their center, all the chiseled dormancies, all the restless intrigues, all the exhaustion and fatigue and the burdens of the world pressing down along the cluster of blue. He wondered if they would ever be beyond misunderstandings, or if they should’ve simply always hovered in mischief, away from the disasters, from the mayhem pushing and pulling them along. He wondered if he could phrase anything else as poorly as the previous statement, if they were revolving around and around and around the unspoken quandaries because it was easier than diving headfirst into what wasn’t being said out loud. He wondered if anything he said ever really mattered, or if it just bit and tore more, prospering acceptance, watching it become a spark to kindling.
The sword breathed, keen and blunt, but not baring his edges and fringes at her. He dropped the apple entirely, and reached across the counter to ensnare one of her hands, the claws and talons digging into flesh. “That is not what I meant.” His voice was calm but his hands were shaking, whether with rage, with consternations, with upheavals, or a combination of everything clustered and coiled within. He sunk into the smoke, the fumes, the fire, because it was what he’d always done, for an eternity, for lifetimes, for seasons and cycles, allowed her vehemence to pierce and pulse and pervade, swallowing the agony. “Is that what I said? That you were not enough? Were those the words that came out of my mouth?” Because he’d be damned if another being sought to snare him into a web, into a trap, into specious depths - never had he ever insinuated that she wasn’t enough, for him, for anyone, for the world. He’d actively encouraged her to pierce and to devastate, to ravage and savage, to be bold, to be audacious, to be strong. Had his support ever gone away? Had his devotion ever swayed?
Did she think so little of him?
Maybe he was right, and he wasn’t worth it in the end – undeserving, inept, ineffectual, everything he’d ever proffered cold, unbidden things – maybe she saw that now.
“I am terrified for you, and for everyone else going with us, because of the things that linger in this world, because of the danger around every corner. Because you have died before, and so have I.” His eyes narrowed, and the clamor stoked, fueled, funneled, rapacious, reverberating behind his teeth, along his tongue. “I only wanted you prepared. With a dagger, with a shield, something.”
Not like this; not bashing and tormenting one another.
He hung his head then, tired, the overwhelming weight pressing over shoulders and down the length of his spine – always a ferocious force, but capable of bending and breaking too. But his words rang loud and clear, so she could hear them over the drums of her anger, over the tension mounting and skimming along the bakery walls. “You are more than enough.” I am the one who is not.
I am comfortable with violence
