DEIMOS
He openly stared at her for a few moments, still as a stone. Calculations rumbled along, confused, perplexed, why on earth she’d want to see, to know, everything he’d ever been. It hadn’t been good. It hadn’t been kind. It hadn’t been anything that she’d encompassed or carried – the Reaper: a pariah to emotion in either lifetime, fixated on malignant, vicious essences, rampant hostility, an avaricious gleam in his cruel, desolate distortions. There’d been moments where he’d been completely void of any sentiments at all, eager to be carved amongst his abhorrence, maelstroms of fiendish incantations, circumventing the globe with his deadly precision, with his savage predilections, with his kingdom, his soldiers, his thieves, his malice at beck and call. They’d unfurled and uncoiled, they’d layered ire, condemnation, and devastation into iron flesh and sinew. They’d proceeded through diabolical insurrection and smoking hazes: unholy sedition, promises of punctures, of primordial treachery to anyone not amongst their own. They’d killed, they’d deceived, they’d lied, they’d manipulated: for glory, for triumph, for ensuring revolution and decadence. Venomous rapture, dominating glory, a reticent rapier summoning his masses across devoured discord: is that what she wanted to see? Is that what she wanted to hear? Before the Sword, that’s all he’d been. The boy from the ocean gone, warped into a warrior, a refugee of the mountains, into a soul who’d forgotten what it was like to care; wild, fierce, and feral.
“You would not stay, if you knew all of it. You would not stay with me.” Not for someone who opted for life at every turn – once she’d experienced the slaughter, the arched detachment, the cold, callous wake. One glance into the Stygian and barbaric, twisted and gnarled reaches, and she’d leave. The Shield went to lift irreverent, broken, scattered vessels towards the sun, and he’d once pushed them off the side of cliffs. It was why he hid behind those leveled walls, behind those ramparts, behind those threads of oblivion, wrapped himself in chains and tethers, bore burden upon burden along his back. It was what he deserved. To bear the weight, to take every strain, every duty, every responsibility, and place it upon his shoulders until he broke. Just desserts, just rewards, for every horrific, formidable, chilling terror he’d unleashed.
Even now, he could be so easily undone, straight into the clarity of an overwhelming, eldritch titan: commit to sedition, to treachery, to disdain, to vengeance, in the blink of an eye.
But he didn’t want to lose her, didn’t want to spiral back into those confines: control, composure, stoicism, a grinding, unattainable, unreachable calamity. He’d never asked her to hide, to veil, to shroud. Perhaps it’d been something they’d taken upon themselves, both shielding from their storms, from their tempests, from their worst, heathen designs. Habit and routine, to embark on things meant to be good, meant to be strong, meant to be determined, and still not washing the varnish, the lacquer away, when they were together. Were they pretenses or guards? Were they masquerading or protecting? And would it matter when it all came down? The beast shook his head, thought, sought, to dig in further into the circle of his own arms, in the bastions of darkness, in the cover of nothingness. Except that wasn’t what she wanted – and he reached again on a harsh intake of breath, lifting his cranium, staring, exhaustion and fatigue and every other emotion written across his face. “What bad parts?” Opening walls, striving to peek over their corridors, their fixtures, and understand.
“You would not stay, if you knew all of it. You would not stay with me.” Not for someone who opted for life at every turn – once she’d experienced the slaughter, the arched detachment, the cold, callous wake. One glance into the Stygian and barbaric, twisted and gnarled reaches, and she’d leave. The Shield went to lift irreverent, broken, scattered vessels towards the sun, and he’d once pushed them off the side of cliffs. It was why he hid behind those leveled walls, behind those ramparts, behind those threads of oblivion, wrapped himself in chains and tethers, bore burden upon burden along his back. It was what he deserved. To bear the weight, to take every strain, every duty, every responsibility, and place it upon his shoulders until he broke. Just desserts, just rewards, for every horrific, formidable, chilling terror he’d unleashed.
Even now, he could be so easily undone, straight into the clarity of an overwhelming, eldritch titan: commit to sedition, to treachery, to disdain, to vengeance, in the blink of an eye.
But he didn’t want to lose her, didn’t want to spiral back into those confines: control, composure, stoicism, a grinding, unattainable, unreachable calamity. He’d never asked her to hide, to veil, to shroud. Perhaps it’d been something they’d taken upon themselves, both shielding from their storms, from their tempests, from their worst, heathen designs. Habit and routine, to embark on things meant to be good, meant to be strong, meant to be determined, and still not washing the varnish, the lacquer away, when they were together. Were they pretenses or guards? Were they masquerading or protecting? And would it matter when it all came down? The beast shook his head, thought, sought, to dig in further into the circle of his own arms, in the bastions of darkness, in the cover of nothingness. Except that wasn’t what she wanted – and he reached again on a harsh intake of breath, lifting his cranium, staring, exhaustion and fatigue and every other emotion written across his face. “What bad parts?” Opening walls, striving to peek over their corridors, their fixtures, and understand.
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
