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 taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary
