hold tight the hand of the heart that breaks

i'm tired of the weight of mortality, i want to tear it from my veins

until i bleed silver and gold

This isn’t Caido anymore. No, the cabin that sits in the mountains is located a place far familiar for the both of them under other circumstances. Snow drifts hang on the edge of the cabin, trees bearing and groaning with the weight of it. A few more cluster of homes dot the inner ring, and far off in the distance the brief view of spiraling monuments, broken but still looming the skyline. Guardians of a sort, to watch over and wait.

But in this dream, the Basin sees two that are not yet passed. In this dream, Deimos still lives, and the Rexanna that finds him is the one forged by Caido.

The sun sparks an early morning, Rexanna wrapped in scarves and jackets to ward away the cold even if she doesn’t entirely have to for fangs still remain within her mouth, her eyes a familiar sapphire blue that sparked both warm and chill depending on the day. And this?

A box in her hands as she reaches his door, not caring to knock, barges through the door of the cabin with a wide grin set upon her face. “Deimos?” She calls out, glancing around the room. “You’re not still sleeping are you? That’s very unlike you.”

maybe one day they'll chant our names

and name galaxies after us, and we too shall be eternal

REXANNA

Deimos the Reaper You can't take back the cards you've dealt on this long and lonely road to hell the throne must be such a sad and lonely place The wind howled outside, and for once in his life, he wasn’t so lost. These were ghosts and machinations, appearances of dreams and memories and nothing more than the bombardment of things once cherished and now completely gone. Between the familiar outstretches of snow, the fire crackling in the hearth, the mystical containment of deadly, nefarious power within his grasp, and a crown not worn, it could’ve been a distant haze. A sight unseen. A polished fragment and filament of everything torn to shreds. Oh, but not now. Piercing eyes lifted from the heavy slumber, from the depths of a world that hadn’t obliterated him yet, that hadn’t torn him to pieces, that hadn’t assailed and robbed him of everything. There were mountains in the distance and monoliths forged, cracked and forlorn, but still just the same, a part of the horizon, a part of familiarity. He rose from the couch, turning to find her, gilded and known, favored and beloved in not so many words. The beast took the chiding with a snort. “I am sorry.” And he didn’t know why, but he had to say it, compelled to over and over and over again. “Tired.” Of something. Of everything. Caught in the abyss; suddenly overburdened and lost.

_{Photo and Table by Time
Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary}

i'm tired of the weight of mortality, i want to tear it from my veins

until i bleed silver and gold

She hears him, while she sets the box on the counter and drifts to the back of the couch where he sits — his apology waved off as she leans over him, sapphire gaze meeting his own ice blues, dark swaths of hair falling before his face. “No need to apologize to me.” She chimes, eyes crinkling with the smile that crosses her face. She moves then, settling to perch herself on the edge of the couch, the arm rest. “You’ve been like this a while.” She looks around the room before her gaze finds him again, mischief sparking in her gaze.

“So that’s why I planned some stuff for us to do today. I even brought you some of your favorite pastries.” Clasping her hands together in an air of dramatics rubbed off by Bastien, she pushes herself off the edge of the couch to latch onto his arm, to pull him up, to be that thorn in his side to get him to move. “They’re bear claws…”

maybe one day they'll chant our names

and name galaxies after us, and we too shall be eternal

REXANNA

Deimos the Reaper You can't take back the cards you've dealt on this long and lonely road to hell the throne must be such a sad and lonely place “Battle took longer than expected.” And had hurt more, judging by the stiffness, the residual pain in his muscles and bones, the way Gull had snagged and taut and stabbed, the way the Reaper had done so in return. He shifted, maneuvered his shoulders, attempted to stretch them out of the unyielding contortions. Tired? Yes. He’d been tired for a long time – burning at both ends with no finality in sight. Going, going, going, because few of the others would bother, would dare. His eyes lifted back to her, drawn and exhausted. He would’ve been content to remain there on the couch for an eternity, and she could stay if she wanted, but he’d be lulled back into slumber and rest and the world wouldn’t be pulling at his seams, at his frayed ends. I am sorry almost fell from his mouth again, but he couldn’t fathom why. “Stuff,” he mentioned, and the word felt bizarre in his mouth, wrinkling his nose in suspicion, eyes narrowing at her joke, before they rolled dramatically. However, he snagged at the box on the counter all the same, enticed to rise by her pull, and not swaying, not bending, a time when he still remained solid and defiant. “Where did you find these?”

_{Photo and Table by Time
Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary}

i'm tired of the weight of mortality, i want to tear it from my veins

until i bleed silver and gold

“Well I’m glad you’re here and not still out there.” She chimes, pleased that she doesn’t have to go rampaging through the snows and mud to find him. Instead, tucked into her layers of clothes, a quick departure from her home to his, barging through doors.

She’s the picture perfect vision of innocence when he rolls his eyes at her adventures planned, bounding over to the kitchen to reveal the bear claws within the box as he opens it, a soft smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Where do you think?” Comes the quiet chimed question, moving then to his cupboards to find mugs and set to making the coffee.

“The best I could find.” And that’s where these two worlds combine — because this was most certainly the Basin, but neither of them were alive. Amalia had not existed in that world versus this, and the bear claw that Deimos bites into will remind him much of the Shield whether it’s good or bad. Dreams were finicky like that, but Rexanna trudges on, working about his kitchen as if she were here far more often than her own. “Azrael is growing up well. They’ve got an interest in engineering.” She flashes him an easy grin with that. “I’m not sure if Bastien would prefer they keep their toys together or keep enhancing them.”

maybe one day they'll chant our names

and name galaxies after us, and we too shall be eternal

REXANNA

Deimos the Reaper You can't take back the cards you've dealt on this long and lonely road to hell the throne must be such a sad and lonely place Another shrug to his shoulders, taut and streamlined in the same instance, muscle upon muscle, brawn upon brawn, forged to protect them all. “Got the armor back anyway.” Deodat’s, hadn’t it been? Snagged and taken, stolen on a mercurial whim. Not on his end though – blistering and barbaric, cutting and slashing his way through the snow, a worn contentment balancing through the void. He brought the bear claw to his mouth, teeth sinking in, and the memories within blurred and blended into too many things at once. His brows furrowed in confusion, looking down at the pastry, at the box, at a hundred myriad things flashing through his mind. The dream was murky in that way, rendering moments and lives together, making him swallow down segments of the unknown and the clarity simultaneously. Too much. “Did I lose her too?” A whisper, meant to be hushed, uncertain, as he shook his head. Tried to ignore. The girl in the rain? Or the one who wielded a shield? Azrael; the newest child. He could focus on that. “Good. We can use their abilities in the future.” A tease as he bit into the pastry again, only putting it down to stare out the window, towards where the guardians were falling apart; a talent he lacked there, but not here. Bizarre, the way things flickered and faded, in and out. "Has Kiada decided what she wants to do?"

_{Photo and Table by Time
Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary}

i'm tired of the weight of mortality, i want to tear it from my veins

until i bleed silver and gold

“You always do.” She admits, a wide fanged grin crossing her face before she’s letting the coffee drip and she’s moving to grab a bear claw for herself. Taking a bite, she mulls over his question, leaning against the counter top and letting her sapphire gaze focus on the Reaper’s Sword. “She’ll always be there, regardless. But you’ve got to focus on you.” She moves then, pressing her hand to his shoulder with that same soft smile, almost motherly. “Look after yourself and she can look after herself, and then? Who knows? Time will tell.” Rexanna, always optimistic, let’s the words fall from her lips. Perhaps it is Amalia, perhaps it is the woman in the rain.

She moves away to begin pouring the cups of coffee, adding in sugars where necessary and milk to top it off, before she’s handing the mug to Deimos and taking a sip of her own. “They will be thrilled.” She snorts, before mention of Kiada has her sighing, an exasperated look crossing her face. “I’m not sure. She’s infatuated with that boy Chulane. I think Kianzo wants to murder him for stealing all the attention.” A hum of a laugh leaves her throat before she’s tugging on his hand to guide them outside into the snows on the wintery morning.

maybe one day they'll chant our names

and name galaxies after us, and we too shall be eternal

REXANNA

Deimos the Reaper You can't take back the cards you've dealt on this long and lonely road to hell the throne must be such a sad and lonely place “It was nice, to not be alone.” The statement curled and plumed away from him without a thought, as if someone else had pulled it from the back of his throat, sent it meandering out into the open. More confusion, more torment, as his eyes drifted back to Rexanna and all her gilded comfort, the uncertainty displayed between his brows. “How do I focus on myself?” Fixation drawn on something along the counter, incapable of looking at her any longer, feeling foolish, dim, and ignorant, when he’d spent lifetime after lifetime ensuring those in his world were cared for, protected, shielded, guarded. “My time has always been for everyone else.” For the droplets of rain as they’d once cascaded around him; never drowning, always seeking, for the moon and stars and suns spinning around his eyes, while he searched for a particular spark in the sky. “They hardly ever come back to me.” He must’ve never been worth the effort, after all. He took the coffee, holding the mug to his lips with a grateful smile; expecting tea but taking the caffeine all the same. There was sweetness embedded to solidify any bitter blows, as Rex had always known, tugged and pulled along while he listened, while he dreamed. “He is a little soft.” A shrug then, not to be rude or cruel, but that maybe Chulane hadn’t experienced the world in quite the same ways they all had. Maybe it was fine. Maybe it was exactly what the Harpy needed. And as they stepped outside, into the snow, he didn’t need furs or shoes, he didn’t need anything at all but the bellowing elements coming alive before him. The snow, the glaciers, the wake of chilling, beautiful rhapsody, power and might and dominion. He breathed and there were no coils of warmth, to tell him this wasn’t real, wasn’t real, wasn’t real, but he didn’t care. One hand wrapped around his mug, the beast arched a brow at the comment about Kianzo. That particular one of Rex’s brood was not his favorite. “Bit of a whiner.” He wrinkled his nose, waited for her reaction. “Takes after his father.” His features took on a very poor impersonation of Tembovu, the other hand not occupied raised into a fist, voice attempting a low rumble, a growl, set to the fellow King’s bellows, as he'd once come bombarding into the Basin. “Where are my children?”

_{Photo and Table by Time
Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary}

i'm tired of the weight of mortality, i want to tear it from my veins

until i bleed silver and gold

“You’re never alone, Deimos.” She hums matter of factly, a grin spreading across her face despite the sorrowful words he speaks. She nears him then, coffee in one hand and her free arm slinging around his shoulders so she can look up into his face. “You do what you want to. You’ve spent your whole life around protecting everyone else, and nobody remains to protect you.” She taps his nose before pulling him in for a hug, resting her head on his shoulder. “Maybe… Just maybe… The Reaper should be selfish and take what he wants.”

She pulls away then, a wide grin on her face as she releases him to finish her bear claw, listening as he continues to speak of Chulane. A snort leaves her, dragging him to the front door where they can emerge into the snows and the morning rays that have speckled the world around them in hues of pink and gold. “Yes well, not everyone is born with knives for fighting.” She winks back to him, taking a sip of her coffee before clutching it in both hands.

A brilliant laugh leaves her in response to Kianzo, in the impression of his and Kiada’s father, and she turns to him with a grin of happiness. “I would have met him at the border, but alas. He couldn’t wait.” A hum of laughter as their kingdom sprawls awake below them. She takes another sip of her coffee, mulling it over, tapping her fingers along the mug. “I don’t blame you.” Wherher she means the action he took over Tembovu, or the attempt to protect the Grounds during LongNight that had taken her life, is unclear.

maybe one day they'll chant our names

and name galaxies after us, and we too shall be eternal

REXANNA

Deimos the Reaper You can't take back the cards you've dealt on this long and lonely road to hell the throne must be such a sad and lonely place A touch he couldn’t feel, but maybe imagine, in the course of his dreams and sorrows, in the pang and clench of his heart in the deep midst and mist of slumber. “Just me and my ghosts,” he smiled, but it was forced, something welling up behind his eyes, and when he blinked, they were gone, eyes maneuvering towards the expanse, a comfort, an ease, as his head sought her shoulder. Because it was heavy, and everything hurt, and for a second nothing did. Nobody remains to protect you. Was it because they didn’t care? Because they thought he was strong enough to withstand every storm, every tempest, thrown his way? Because they couldn’t see him eroding? Because there was no one left who gave a damn? “Sometimes I want the world to burn down around me.” His cranium moved away and off her intangible wake, tall again, but not bent, just a little broken. “Sometimes I just want to rest.” To drift into a time, a place, where he could remember how to stand on his own. Did he yearn to be an unreachable, unattainable wall again? The demon in the shadows? More than a tired, exhausted Sword? More than a silent, callous Reaper? “Sometimes I do not know what I want at all.” Not used to yearning for anything but power, might, and precision. A shrug, as she pulled out of his orbit, and he instantly wanted to snatch her back, to have some greedy, avaricious second, but there was the snow to distract, to maneuver within and know as well as the back of his own hand; to emerge into its filaments and breathe again. A sip of coffee, eyelids hanging heavy, before rising once more, half a smirk embedded at the knife comment; and then encouraging a laugh at the ridiculous impression, of a past that didn’t haunt. “I cannot fathom what you saw in him.” A wrinkle to his nose, settling in amusement, in more walking into footfalls of snow, and leaving no path behind. Then her words pierced, and he couldn’t look at her, couldn’t do anything but stare at the ground, at the snow, at the powder collecting around his legs. “I do. I blame myself every day. It should not have happened.” He should’ve known better. He should’ve understood. Thereafter, his head twisted back over his shoulder, and he stared at gilded Penumbras and former Thieves. “I will get you back. I promise.”

_{Photo and Table by Time
Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary}

i'm tired of the weight of mortality, i want to tear it from my veins

until i bleed silver and gold

“Just you and your ghosts.” She says quietly, a repeated murmur of what he’s already said. But as he continues, her gaze continues to scan the mountains around them, the sunlight drifting higher over the edge of the peaks. “It’s okay to not know. But there has to be something you yearn for that’s solely for yourself.” She tilts her head toward him with a soft smile. “I wanted power and the inability to not be a pawn in someone’s game. And I did.” Flashing him a fanged smile, she returns to her cup. “Find what you want, go after it. Forget all the consequences.” Live.

As for what she saw in Tembovu, she snorts, the air curling cold clouds about her nose and mouth. “An air for sticking myself in dramatics and a good time in bed.” She flashes him a wink, a hum of chimed laughter. Might be a bit too much information, but what else are best friends for if not to indulge in the nitty gritty of life?

He doesn’t look at her, though, as her words hit him. And she downs the rest of her coffee and sets the cup on the edge of the porch before she’s moving toward him like a ghost again. “It isn’t your fault. It was an accident. Accidents happen, that doesn’t mean there was predetermination within it.” She offers, shrugging her shoulders entirely nonchalantly, as if they weren’t talking of her death. The warmth held in her gaze certainly doesn’t match. But she lifts his head then, fingertips at his chin to look into his cold eyes. “You are my best friend, Deimos. Through worlds and lives. I know you’ll get me back just as I got you back.” When they’d met in the Rathskeller and she’d opened his mind to those forgotten memories of this place.

“Now stop blaming yourself for what everyone thinks and does, and go get some towels. We’re going to the hot springs.” She squeezes his shoulder then, moving to wait at the edge of the porch.

maybe one day they'll chant our names

and name galaxies after us, and we too shall be eternal

REXANNA

Deimos the Reaper You can't take back the cards you've dealt on this long and lonely road to hell the throne must be such a sad and lonely place “And you did.” A smile, instilled with pride for her, for her accomplishments, for escaping, for evading, for finding power and dominion. For control in the game, for however long it lasted. How did one forget consequences, when they’d spent every moment of their adult lives calculating? Orchestrating machinations? Thinking of preferred angles, and still forgoing, forgetting, the specifics of misfortune? But another promise instilled in the nod of his head. “Okay.” Live; because he had before and dragged himself into the trenches, into warfare, into nothingness, until he burned at both ends and no one thought, sought, to curb the flames; watched him wither, watched him decay, watched him perish right before their eyes. For himself, because no one else would. The Reaper snorted in response to her comment, some shudder to his shoulders (likely some aspect of revulsion). “I hated that he dragged you away.” From here. From him. From a world that treasured her, only to go to the misty void, where she was just another one of the Edge’s harem. Rexanna had always been worth far, far more. Coffee downed, the dregs left on the porch next to hers, when ethereal filaments surrounded, pervaded, on the edges of his eyes, on the sunshine horizon, on the ruin of primordial echoes. He listened, as badly as he wanted to be swallowed down into the snow, nodding to accept it, uncertain how to take the blame off his heart, off his shoulders, off his spine. Chin and jaw lifted, to stare into wraiths and phantoms and fractions of imagination he’d yearn to believe in – nodding into her hand when all he wanted to do was break down and sob. “That is what we do.” It choked and haunted, but the vow was there. I will get you back, I will get you back, I will get you back, and you will be free, one last time. Released, ushered away for moments, not remembering how he acquired towels or spare clothing, to return with one draped over brawn and another extended for her. Stop blaming yourself ran down his backbone, and he tried to believe in it. “The hot springs,” and he permitted her to lead.

_{Photo and Table by Time
Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary}

i'm tired of the weight of mortality, i want to tear it from my veins

until i bleed silver and gold

She flashes him a fiercer grin, an acknowledgement that they needed to be their own warriors, their own saviors. Nobody could save them but themselves — hasn’t she learned that time and time again? What would it take for Deimos to learn the same too? He was smarter than she was, not getting stuck in the situations that she did. But for him? It would take longer because of it. She only hopes he knows.

So instead, she releases him, a hum of a laugh slipping from her throat as he says that he hated that Tembovu whisked her away, and Rexanna inclines her head a small amount with a shrug. “I hated that I let him. I hated that I thought I was special to him when all I had become was a broodmare.” She shrugs with that. “But I got Kia and Zo out of it. I wouldn’t change that.” She hums softly, looking out along the snows again. “And Bastien has been both a blessing and salvation.” Flashing him a softer smile, as if she approves of the friendship blossoming between Bastien and Deimos, she sends him off to get the towels for their trip.

This is where dreams become strange, when Deimos arrives. She’ll grab his arm so they can start the trek, and once their feet step off the porch, they’re there on the edge of the hot springs, Rexanna shedding her outer layers to reveal that scar on her chest where she’d been impaled, the brand etched into her neck from her previous life before here. “It’s a perfect day for this. I missed the springs so much.” She hums, diving into it as mist sweeps up from it, soothing the chill against her skin as the sun rises higher above.

maybe one day they'll chant our names

and name galaxies after us, and we too shall be eternal

REXANNA

Deimos the Reaper You can't take back the cards you've dealt on this long and lonely road to hell the throne must be such a sad and lonely place Save yourself ricocheted and bounded against minds and bones, lungs and ashes, to build himself back up, to know and realize that he and his wraiths, his phantoms, his experiences, would always be the constant. Faith in himself. Reliance upon his strength. Upon his might. Upon his persistence. “Do I build my walls back up then?” He wondered out loud. “Do I stop letting people in?” So it couldn’t hurt anymore? Then he was in the snow and towels in hand and the sun shining down on them like a beacon, over the top of mountains, pledging, sanctifying, a benediction he could never have again, but loved and cherished just the same. “You are special.” No were, like she no longer existed, like only the eclipses were there to remind him – the sun to spin around his head when he knew he was being an idiot, a fool, needed her to beckon and tell him to cease, to desist. “And they are far better than he will ever be.” Where did Tembovu exist, except in their memories? A backdrop of foolishness and idle decisions, and then nothing more. The Sword laughed at the insinuation of Bastien, blessings, salvations, a person that pulled her out of hell, not able to recognize the artist might have been one of those who could do the same for him. “I am glad you found him.” That she had a chance, an opportunity, to be savored and loved and cherished for who she was, for her power, for her might, for every nuance in between. And thereafter, the springs – the familiarity, the fondness for the blessed warmth in the coldest arches, for the blend of ardency in worn muscles. And where Rexanna was scarred, the impalements, the brands, so was he – lines upon lines upon lines where blades had carved their paths, and where he’d lived, survived, despite everything surging to the contrary. He shed off his tunic, left his pants, and sunk, drifted, proffered a sigh as he leaned his head against the embankment, and remembered, recalled, what it meant to relax. “Hotaru was going to make some in Halo.”

_{Photo and Table by Time
Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary}