Deimos
There were some days it wouldn’t take much for the Reaper to re-emerge; noble Sword gone, the coldblooded malevolence, the breadth and rush of revolution, the seething, fiendish maelstroms echoing and reverberating savagery, argent domination from the piercing fervor of the mountains lacquered into his soul. He kept the smoldering havoc tampered down now, but could feel it thriving, immersed, boiling, and brewing in the simmering pinnacles of his veins, unwinding motions tempting, predacious, raptorial decadence. It was when any of his own were threatened, when any of his family or friends faced orchestrations in barbarous, ruthless, remorseless turns; yearning to layer his own perennial villainy into the exploits, willing to resort to any treacherous considerations, a frigid, bedlam-immersed insurrection. How many times had he done it in Helovia, reaching down to procure his sword, unleashing hell and violence against those who’d dared to harm those he’d sworn to protect. He smothered, he drowned, he choked with the weight of it in the present, in the age-old procedures, routines, and Machiavellian chords, those dastardly promises, those savage, predacious vows.
Deimos’ breaths were well controlled as he listened, because he wasn’t going to be a hypocrite, wasn’t going to lecture or chide on her motivations, on her intentions to head straight into disaster. How many times had he done the same – willingly putting himself in ominous reaches, multiple times, to ensure safety, to strive for destruction of plants – so he bit his tongue on the insurrection haunting his skull. It was well meant, in his primordial beliefs: he didn’t want her hurt, he didn’t want her bludgeoned, he didn’t want her tossed into all those violent tides the way the rest of them had been; decimated and demolished, haunting eaves and poignant days still drenched and drained over the hides. He knew she was strong. He knew she was capable. But his nature favored stalwart guards and rampant, diabolical insurrection – and he fought it, fought it, fought it, staring down at his food while she spoke of Jigano.
Because Jigano had once led them into the Fae woods, for them to be captured. Because Jigano and he had fought over returning to the Spire. Because Jigano was going to be her protector, and it rankled, it itched, it scorned.
He couldn’t name why it burnt; the theories mauling and molding licentious credence back into his throat, into his lungs, because somewhere or somehow he was going to have to either make amends with the Sage or summon another conversation neither wanted to repeat. Would Ludo’s Lantern keep them away from the monsters? From any other looming threats? Or were they being sent out to the slaughter?
The monolith bit back a retort about last year’s LongNight, when she’d crossed her way across the grounds and gained a luxere, but others died in the process. He’d forgotten the shape of his breath, the fissures of inhaling and exhaling, under such an infinite control and composure. The smiles were gone. The grins had vanished. Even his appetite had disappeared amongst the potential for more disaster and ruin, when they’d just gotten her back. “Is there anything you need?” He asked instead, his eyes leaving his plate and untouched breakfast, following her stare, pondering if there were weapons he could make her so they weren’t sitting ducks. Because he was useless, useless, useless, in the face of these efforts.
Deimos’ breaths were well controlled as he listened, because he wasn’t going to be a hypocrite, wasn’t going to lecture or chide on her motivations, on her intentions to head straight into disaster. How many times had he done the same – willingly putting himself in ominous reaches, multiple times, to ensure safety, to strive for destruction of plants – so he bit his tongue on the insurrection haunting his skull. It was well meant, in his primordial beliefs: he didn’t want her hurt, he didn’t want her bludgeoned, he didn’t want her tossed into all those violent tides the way the rest of them had been; decimated and demolished, haunting eaves and poignant days still drenched and drained over the hides. He knew she was strong. He knew she was capable. But his nature favored stalwart guards and rampant, diabolical insurrection – and he fought it, fought it, fought it, staring down at his food while she spoke of Jigano.
Because Jigano had once led them into the Fae woods, for them to be captured. Because Jigano and he had fought over returning to the Spire. Because Jigano was going to be her protector, and it rankled, it itched, it scorned.
He couldn’t name why it burnt; the theories mauling and molding licentious credence back into his throat, into his lungs, because somewhere or somehow he was going to have to either make amends with the Sage or summon another conversation neither wanted to repeat. Would Ludo’s Lantern keep them away from the monsters? From any other looming threats? Or were they being sent out to the slaughter?
The monolith bit back a retort about last year’s LongNight, when she’d crossed her way across the grounds and gained a luxere, but others died in the process. He’d forgotten the shape of his breath, the fissures of inhaling and exhaling, under such an infinite control and composure. The smiles were gone. The grins had vanished. Even his appetite had disappeared amongst the potential for more disaster and ruin, when they’d just gotten her back. “Is there anything you need?” He asked instead, his eyes leaving his plate and untouched breakfast, following her stare, pondering if there were weapons he could make her so they weren’t sitting ducks. Because he was useless, useless, useless, in the face of these efforts.
i rule the stars, not the other way around
