Hurt so Good

D e i m o s

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

His eyes might’ve widened a fraction as Jigano began to list all of the notions, the blessings, the spells, the adornments either lacquered to their blood or tied to their vocals, far more magic and enchantments than anyone in Helovia, except perhaps their deities, might have contained. Some of them sounded familiar, birds of similar feathers – water wielders (like his mother), fear-mongering, defensive, tactical munitions, that yes, indulged the brief smile along his mouth again, invisibility, distortion of sound and mind…they just didn’t have the means of indulgence in so many ways. What would any Helovian had done with those kinds of incantations, capable of holding and utilizing so many? If patterns followed suit, there likely would’ve been more battles, more bloodshed, more annihilation, more intrigue and espionage; the plots thickening, the ruses tangling, the barbarity distorting for eternity. Because they’d all been greedy, ravenous, acquisitive beings, repose and sanctity foreign, there in place for a time before someone else lingered in irreverence, sought something not meant for them. “Impressive,” was all he could manage for a moment, caught in the descriptions, in the possibilities never open to them. His attention deviated, back to the next target to be maneuvered along with its brethren. “We had limitations,” he considered, gaze narrowing on the fumbled limbs in his grasp. “Some might have two, possibly three, ways of wielding magic, but never any more.” They could wane in strength, they could be abolished for a season, when gods cut ties or fell beneath their shrines. They could disappear; and one was bereft. They could fall apart, they could be diminished, they could be torn, they could be removed – or they could be blessed. “I was born with life drain, but it was different. Manifested itself when I was young.” His brows furrowed again, the legendary Reaper with his impudent scythe, prowling along the icy plains, hunting for souls waiting to be slaughtered. The death knells starting in his grasp, whittling down into his bones; no more than a child, watching as the world grew colder. “There was no turning it off. I could not touch anyone without them potentially being harmed.” Why he detached himself from everyone around him, why he kept to the shadows, why he was the picture of nonchalance and apathy; fine for his enemies to be destroyed and brutalized, but never those within his own kingdom. “I also had some fire capabilities.” Reflections and mirrors, why he’d stared into his own palm for so long within the guild, pieces and punctures of his father immersed in his blood, why he’d wondered, pondered, if it had come back to him, if there were still measures of yesteryear coated and laced in his soul. But then he ceased – not much else to add – not quite the luxury of spells and incantations as Jigano’s world might’ve been; Helovia immersed, just not to the extent. And for an instant, he felt that need to retreat again, reserved, nonchalant, as if he’d said and breathed and whittled, carved, expressed too much. Deimos swallowed down the discomfort, rising from the ground, grabbing hold more of the targets, beginning his march over to where the rest waited their turn to be lacerated and punctured. He could almost hear Jigano’s grin on the last comment, instigating another snort from the Sword. “She must have known.” Or didn't care if he plunged to his death. For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate