tragedies in silence
one-shot post
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Warden of Halo / Guildmaster

Age: 33 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Hybrid | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Halo
Level: 14 - Strg: 72 - Dext: 72 - Endr: 73 - Luck: 80 - Int: 3
BELIAL - Mythical - Peryton (Blend) ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
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Posts: 6,553 | Total: 10,646
MP: 9824
#1

Deimos the Reaper

master of nothing place, of recoil and grace

On the afternoon before their wedding, it rained.

The cascades and showers were light, calm, gentle drifting things, too delicate for autumn, gliding down his monolithic figure, across broken boughs, along remnants and remains of decayed, brittle leaves. In a different time, in a different world, in a different place, the same elements had courted, wrapped, and inveigled until he’d been tempted, and then until he’d perished.

On whims, on things that were once so familiar and stark, he followed the pathway of droplets, of the ethereal filaments and fragments, winding and winding until steps and strides tucked him into the oasis – and perhaps the once Reaper should’ve known he was tracing and chasing after ghosts, while his breath curled and billowed, while he became soaked to the bone.

Had she existed in these realms at all, Huyana’s presence would’ve been tied to these embankments and shorelines, to the fish lulled in the stream, to the layers of silt and soil. But maybe she was merely the rain again now, and if he closed his eyes, he could imagine outlines, wraiths and phantoms in the haze, in the mist, in the fog, particles and entities that taught him too much and left him too early.

Not just hers – but all of them, mighty towers of parents and lineages, of mothers with their stern brows and fathers with their powerful sway, christening him with flames and water and damnation, with patience and understanding, with devotion he likely never deserved, for teaching, for guiding, for allowing. Chances and opportunities carved into his core, and then driven him mad with grief, sinking, sinking, sinking into those ranges of melancholy, fissures of ruin and demolition. If he glanced, if he looked hard enough, the summits could’ve been there too, never warped, never broken, their armies, their fortifications, layered before, a stretched out oeuvre of everything. He bowed his head and nearly drowned in it all over again, then and now, the world of sorrow an eternal canvas, incapable of ceasing its strokes, its streaks of crimson and ichor –

The Sword gulped and choked on a fissure of air waged through his lungs, and then nodded, desisting in the haze, comprehension contorting its sculpting fractures within his ribs, over the blackened portions of his heart beginning to reform, to color. Instead, he existed and remained, alone, but not despondent, sitting upon a rock and staring out over the fathoms, over the abyss.

He didn’t wish for many things, but he did now – only because no matter the fire of his ambitions, his aspirations, there was no way to make them hold true. They couldn’t be here for ceremonies, for moments scattered beneath the stars. They couldn’t be here for anything. It didn’t matter how many lanterns he made them. It didn’t matter how often he saw them from the corner of his eyes, the lull of his memories or dreams.

So maybe they would know, without him saying a single word, what connections and complexities could convey. Maybe his munitions and beliefs and faith and ardency could reach across galaxies and lost souls, touch upon a fiery abyss, a cloud of rain, a still stone. Maybe somewhere along the way he’d made them proud, earned the depths of their endless warmth and grace.

Nothing slid from his mouth, from his tongue, or behind his teeth – these were lifted from his mind as he stared into the sky, as he raised his cranium to peer into the horizon. Thank you to those monumental pieces and figures in his life, for loving him when it shouldn’t have been possible, when his mutinous, seditious, cold, craven desolation still inspired something other than irreverence. For permitting him to remember what it was like in those scarce, undulating moments, to be cherished, to be seen beyond the monster. For allowing him to recall, to open up pathways of forgiveness, trust he’d find his way eventually, that he’d miraculously discover another who withstood his battered, wounded expanse.

He stayed until the rain lifted, until it eased from his presence, until evening loomed and stretched, until the goodbyes turned into something other than endless, persisting sorrow.

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