our terrible story of survival

Deimos the Reaper master of nothing place, of recoil and grace His anthem had always been a staccato of the unworthy, a banner emblazoned across nonchalance and reticent, dormant sentiments tucked away, into the crux and folds of his irreverence and decay. It was the same no matter which world he inhabited, familiar and resolute in the tarnished sway of his own beliefs – paying homage and tribute to others who scorched and embodied, placing himself in front of their frames to defend, to honor, to protect, to shield, because they were better, they were righteous, they were deserved flames and he was the coal, the cinders, the ice. Then he built his walls of might and malice, instigated and agitated, invoked and instigated, kindled the notion of home in the lives of others – the snow, the mountains, the frigid, chilling winds, eternal winter bound to his skin, to his sanction, one of the few sanctuaries he’d ever known. It reminded him of his measures, of his merits, of the nothingness laced and lanced in the columns, in the fibers of his being, of his essence. Habitual and routine – to run himself straight into the ground, to sear and simmer against boundaries, to ensure everyone in his threshold was alive and well even if he wasn’t – perpetuity in his bones, until the end, incapable of seeing it any other way, of living in a differing spectacle. He’d breathed into the peaks, into the valleys, at one with death and massacres, a piece of stone and rubble as faces passed and pierced, as figures moved on, as more subjects reigned, as cycles persisted, as the world ached and burned, as those who claimed to be by his side glided off into the ether. Then there was the Valkyrie, light and enigmatic, roses and thorns, distinct, wily infernos across smiles and sunshine brows – more potent than poison, more lethal than the sun, at his side while they persisted, while they preyed, while they ensured the Aurora Basin remained firm, distinct, against the skyline, against opponents and adversaries, against the grating world. The Reaper hadn’t meant to leave her, any of them, but had been called for his own scythe, swinging amongst the pits and pendulums, threads cut and extinguished. He made no mention of it in this strange reality, in the clutching of souls, in the re-gathering of family, in the retying of lines; he simply couldn’t fathom or understand what he’d done to earn their return. It wasn’t about him, not really, but he still kept the notions tucked against the edges of his thawing heart, beside all the shambled pieces and broken shards, sticking and stitching them back together again with each and every being who accepted, who tolerated, his ridiculous presence. His chest thundered with the din of triumph instead – arms grasping, ensuring she remained, no escape for either of them in the crossfire and haze of alternate worlds. The beast, the warrior, the fool, said naught at the feeling of tears against his neck, laughed them away when they threatened to fall from his cheeks, the uncertainty never quite a match for Hotaru. He didn’t deserve it, never ever, no matter how Safrin had told him to look inside himself and see something; it was a difficult interval to snap, to fragment, to fissure, when he’d spent lifetimes glancing on the outside, striving to be better, to be brutal, to be barbaric. She had always been better – a hand in wisdom and sagacity he’d never quite immersed himself within, too easily swayed by Machiavellian properties and coldblooded calculations, to glance beyond – he’d been a force, but she’d been an impact, compassionate and beholden, a powerful, potent tide when the Basin had needed it most, when he couldn’t provide those angles, those methods, those means. But they were all together again, and maybe that was all that mattered. Here to conquer and devastate and unravel again – stronger for it. So he allowed himself to be surrounded by her, by the warmth, by the memories, plunging his soul into those regions again and wondering how they’d ever been so contained. He chuckled at her hiccup, at her platonic caresses, at the way shields and swords and blades and knives all unfolded once more. Missed me, whatever for? the once-king wanted to say – burning on his tongue, simmering on his teeth. He exhaled instead, incapable of promising on the never leaving, never departing, when he’d already faced death on numerous occasions just here, placing himself in harm’s way day after day. “I will try not to,” was all he could surmise, just as he tried not to leave Amalia, Kiada, Rexanna, or any more of his accumulated kin and brethren (how was a formidable question – how had he gained so many to devote and cherish?). At her last statement, he snorted, a billowing inhale and exhale ravaged by the cold, like yesteryears, like days only reignited in dreams. Instead of bending into the potential insults, he surmised a warm smile she likely couldn’t see, the way she was tucked into his shoulders, the way they’d re-forged ancient assurances and alliances. “I missed you too.”

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