break the silence

death, you bring death and destruction to all that you touch

Even before the Sword sent the note, he presumed Sunjata had to be expecting this.

Some sort of semblance of vehemence, a fissure in the tenuous armistice they’d managed over the past year. On broken promises, on withered convictions, on broken-hearted Valkyries and steadfast, stalwart Generals, on the hinges and fringes of decay and pernicious precision. Safrin’s task only amplified the precarious position, and he was already on a precipice of irritation and exasperation; the abhorrence long since coiled and clustered bid another semblance of liberation. The scrawl, neat and tidy and giving nothing away other than the deeper marks of ink (Sunjata, we have much to discuss), could present some ominous prospects for the Flood.  

Maybe he didn’t care – but Deimos did.

He permitted the anger to fuel him as he headed through the portal and out into the midst of a storm – raising his eyes to the high winds, to the humid air clustering and repelling in the same measure. The fringes of the sea were ferocious and contemptuous, and he fed into it as he asked about the location of the Flood’s home, as he crossed over flooded tracks and pathways, as he marched towards the house outlined in stone and cliffs. It spiraled and contorted, rippled and exuded, over thoughts of betrayal, over trusted friends, over death and damnation from long ago, over the inability to spare a single brain cell for the notion of his disastrous wake.

The goddess wanted him to express himself? Fine – let it be in seething, fiendish vestiges, in predacious, diabolical insurrection, in antagonistic poise.

A fist knocked on the fool’s door, listening to it echo against the backdrop of monsoons.

DEIMOS

SUNJATA

the flood

anyway, you say you're too busy
saving everybody else to save yourself

He’d gotten the note. And he’d dreaded it every second after. Because of course he knows what the discussion would likely be about, but whether or not he could exactly handle dealing with it was another story. He already sat precariously on the edge of a knife, just waiting for the next disaster to strike.

For the moment, though, the storms had arrived, and Sunjata had done a surprisingly good job on dealing with trying to keep a five year old inside the home and busy and occupied. Toys are strewn about, the kitchen a bit of a mess as if he and his daughter had attempted to make something — given Sunjata’s inability to cook, it had been a challenge, but they had at least managed something edible. A perk at the very least.

But the knock arrives, and Sunjata’s informed by Haai just who the visitor is, who else would brave the storm to meet his door, and he inwardly sighs, shutting down his attuned bond the best he can and draws it into himself. He manages to get his daughter and Haai upstairs before he answers the door, the griffin able to keep the little girl occupied, before he’s opening the door to let Deimos in.

“I didn’t expect you during the monsoons.” He says by way of greeting, stepping aside and gesturing for the General of Halo to step within the confines of his home. It looks lived in, with stuffed animals and toys strewn about, children’s books here and there among the coffee table, and a roaring fire in the fireplace to try and keep it all warm. The kitchen itself is a mess, but Sunjata doesn’t feel the need to explain himself. Deimos already knows.

He closes the door behind the General and pauses by the entry. “Would you like something to drink first or are we just going for it?” His head tilts, his scarred face masked and blank in comparison to everything else, as his arms move to cross his chest.

and you don't want no help, oh well
that's the story to tell

death, you bring death and destruction to all that you touch

The Reaper once stood before others and relished their fear. When they could see him for what he truly was – a condemning, destructive, demolishing force, capable of crushing and diminishing, devastating and contorting, with the span of a breath, with the lacquer of his lungs, with such little, condemning effort. He stared at their quaking forms. He savored the rapid, apprehensive beat of their hearts – final and gone in a matter of moments. He waited for the world to ignore his warnings, single and absolute, before rendering exactly as he’d intended, what he’d meant, what he’d promised. And despite every moment, despite every tale, despite every story, despite every nuance and notion of that fabled Lord of the Basin, there were always idiots, always fools, who failed to listen.

He stared at one of them now, as the Flood opened the door, permitting him entry into his home. Perhaps another foolish notion.

The Sword took an instant to study the world around him – predacious grace and minatory habits – toys for a child littering the floor, the kitchen haphazard, the shelter just as much of a wreck as the man, as the world outside. Animal strewn, fake and stuffed, books for an older juvenile causing him the slightest pause, considering he was in the belief, the notion, that the youth conspired between Sunjata and Safrin would be an infant.

Only thereafter did he arch his brow at the first statement, the reticence morphing, molding, melding, into furrowed brows and contempt in the piercing slate of his eyes. “Like a storm would stop me.” The Flood should’ve known better than that.

The offer was unexpected, but didn’t flare away his anger. If Sunjata was hoping for a distraction, he’d be sorely disappointed. “Water would be fine.”

And then, of course, he would start going for it.

Mastered incantations of the element bombarding him were suddenly whisked away – gone from his coat, gone from his skin, gone from his flesh, and then he rounded back upon the other man. “We have had this discussion once before.” He helped himself to a chair, pulling it out from the table, removing the stuffed dragon already occupying the space. “I had hoped you had changed.”

DEIMOS

SUNJATA

the flood

anyway, you say you're too busy
saving everybody else to save yourself

He supposes he should have expected Deimos during this time. Oh, but how he had hoped he’d have more time to prepare. He isn’t lucky in that regard either, though, and one thing Sunjata’s learned more so than the rest of everything as of late? Is to go with the punches, as it were. There’s a low hum of agreement that slips from his throat, before he’s nodding and stepping away into the messy kitchen. Deimos would find as he sits, a few handprints left behind in a mix of flour, of small hands of a five year old.

But Sunjata returns with two glasses of water, sliding one across the table to the General before he sits as well, arms braced on the table as Deimos absolutely starts to go for it.

The Flood can’t help but to give an unamused laugh, leaning back in the chair to run a hand through his hair before he regards Deimos again. “Yes, well, I had hoped I did too.” He offers as his lips quirk toward a frown. “But I didn’t, obviously, and here we are.” His tone takes on an almost Nate-esque tone with the way he accentuates the ‘obviously’ before he’s peering back at Deimos, unamused and quiet, waiting for the barrage to come.

and you don't want no help, oh well
that's the story to tell

death, you bring death and destruction to all that you touch

It was the flippant response, the careless laugh, the irreverent manifestation of movement that coiled more predilections into the Sword’s spine. As if Sunjata truly didn’t care about how many he hurt. About how many he wrecked. About how many lives had been upended in his foolishness, starting from the very beginning. A one man demolition machine, haphazard and heedless. And it certainly hadn’t come from wit, from machinations, from thoughts, but an imprudent reach of too many things, too many people, too many factions all at once. Deimos had known greedy, avaricious individuals, considered himself one in some aspects, but Sunjata continued to surprise him with the lengths in which he’d go, and the people he’d step upon to claim titles of stupidity. And then how he was never seemingly held accountable for it. Consequences be damned.

His hands grasped over the glass of water – mostly to stop himself from reaching over and strangling the Flood – elbow brushing away the flour on the table.

There were days where Deimos wished he’d finished the job on their hunting expedition. Pressed a little harder, listened to the breath try to whistle and wheeze through the panther’s lungs, until it simply couldn’t anymore. There were moment where the General wished he’d amplified his own mistake on the beach, and hadn’t compelled Zuriel to heal him; left his heart shocked and useless, drained and electrocuted. Perhaps they would’ve been small mercies for the rest of the world, to not have to deal with this moron.

A cold, cold malevolence fixated in his form, and he thought to buy himself time, for the anarchy to truly build and brew, for the barbarous incantations to work themselves into a full compulsion and conviction. Seething, primordial treachery, lurking and lingering in his bones, venomous rapture and unholy sedition working their way through the unyielding columns of his backbone – diabolical insurrection at the heart and soul of him. His tones were flat when they finally concocted, the piercing, puncturing juncture of his gaze solely focused on the idiot before him. “Change does not come from hope. You have to do something to earn the alterations.” A tilt of his head, a quick flash of perusal and abhorrence. “But I see that has not happened.” And maybe he had for a time. Maybe he hadn’t, and it was only returning to the Sword now because of Hotaru’s involvement. An empty head, and empty promises. “You have to be most disappointing person I have ever met.”

Which was saying something, considering the amount of lives he’d known. Brutal, barbaric enemies, cunning individuals – those he could at least give credit to, respect for their abilities. There was nothing to admire, regard, or esteem here. Calm, composed, and loathing under all those layers, the monolith took a drink of the water, before continuing. “I want to hear your version of events.”

DEIMOS

SUNJATA

the flood

anyway, you say you're too busy
saving everybody else to save yourself

Change doesn’t come from hope. He knows that. He knows all of that. And yet it becomes difficult for Sunjata to be able to break it apart in a way that’s planned, managed, easier to swallow rather than gut instincts and impulse. Perhaps it’s due to the fact he never tended to look too far in the future, sure of how uncertain it was, how it could be taken away by an easy wave of a hand. As if the man before him couldn’t do it as easily as that, either.

Muscles feather in his jaw as he tears his gaze away from Deimos to stare at something on the wall, to avoid looking directly at him when the words fall from his lips. He distinctly remembers getting an air of something fatherly once upon a time from Deimos, but he had never expected those words to sound so much like Shaju’s own. It’s enough to draw him silent rather than to lash out, to pull into himself as he chews at the inside of his ruined cheek. He wants to say something witty, something to avoid the bluntness of Deimos’ words, but nothing come to mind.

So he takes it, stuffs it away in that part of him where his father’s reprimands have hit home hard and how he’d strove to simply survive versus becoming something that made sense. Because none of this did, really. But he was trying, whether or not anyone believed he was capable of such. He tries. And for the most part it’s done with good intentions, even if it falls flat and goes wrong most of the time.

His version of events? He spins the glass slightly in his hand, works his jaw as he stares at the liquid within that he hasn’t touched yet. “Safrin called me to her, to talk about the war.” He says at first, keeping his gaze averted, keeping himself together the best he can. “I wanted to stay out of it but we both know that won’t happen. So. I told her I wouldn’t hurt Nate, that I couldn’t. And I told her my fears of what would happen to him should the Voice be destroyed.” He shakes his head, the lines of his face deepening with the frown that overtakes it.

“So we bargained. The only way to try and ensure Nate’s safety was with me proving I could take care of another life.” The child. “I did not know that Nate would return as a Voice demigod. And I know I should have talked with him and Hotaru before, but I was worried that if I left the conversation there… That it would end.” That there’d be no chance of saving him.

He stares at the ceiling for a brief moment before his gaze finally turns back to Deimos. “And now both Hotaru and Nate have left and I have a five year old to care for. I don’t blame them and I understand why they did. And I understand the line I crossed, intimately well, but what’s done is done.” It isn’t an attempt to gain pity, just a statement of the facts. They had left him, for however long in Nate’s case, and he was raising a child born to the stars.

and you don't want no help, oh well
that's the story to tell

death, you bring death and destruction to all that you touch

The Sword had been born into a world fit for plotting. For arranging. For configuring machinations in Machiavellian minds. The patterns came from war, from experiences, from battles, from circumstances, from loss after loss after loss, and maybe that was why he held so little regard for impulsivity. He wasn’t prone to it – not in the way he was raised. Unless it was bent into foolishness, into juvenile qualities and mischief, then he took accord with calculations and thorough intentions. Even now, in the midst of his quiet, his cranium circumvented, contorted, and coiled, listening, listening, listening, head tilted in his hushed predator mannerisms.

Waiting.

No denial of his stupidity. No rejection of alterations swayed or changed. The monolith wondered if everyone else had simply pat him on the head and said it was fine; to carry on in his onslaughts, in his recklessness, in his foolishness. Nothing learned, nothing gained, nothing weighed from these cataclysms, like all the others. No accountability, no consequences, except by those well and truly fed up.

The story sounded similar to the one Hotaru had told him, so at the very least there weren’t any lies embedded within, or figments he could skewer him upon. Instead, there were multitudes of manipulation, of compulsions and inclinations, of temptations and notions seized, without any time to mull or muse on the matter – even when deemed so important, so life-altering. And Safrin had taken his regard for the newly Ascended Demigod with such aplomb – concocting where Sunjata clearly had not. He found it bizarre, in some way. Deimos wouldn’t have trusted Sunjata with a pair of shoes, much less a child.

But then again, maybe the herald had received exactly what she’d wanted, and played the Flood like a fiddle. What could she do now, to someone already so intrinsically aligned with the Voice?

His tones rumbled thereafter, head shaking thereafter, a sigh warring its way behind his teeth. “Did you ever think Nate would be capable of saving himself? Or to ask for time?” That there might’ve been other opportunities? Other bargains? Other ways to orchestrate a proposition?

The General likely already knew the answer – a resounding, reverberating no. It echoed in the way Hotaru had been tossed aside. It pulsed in the way Nate had ceased. But on that following line, on what’s done is done, he openly sneered – the statement dangerous, treacherous, reeling through his senses. So blasé. So indifferent. So apathetic.

And he let him feel it – every ounce of his contempt, his abhorrence, his hatred, his ferocity, unwound along the Attuned bond, until it was pressing, suffocating, consuming. Callous and forbidding, seething and fiendish, his own brand of demonic art and unholy sedition, where raptorial predilections longed and yearned to cut and tear, rip him apart from the inside out. Treacherous, licentious credences and considerations, blistering in heathen brushstrokes, in fathoms no one had yet truly seen or felt within Caido. Not since he’d gone across the Basin, chasing down threats. He leaned forward, just an inch, all monstrous animosity. “The only thing saving you from my wrath is that child.” That Sunjata would use her as a shield, as a buffer, wasn’t a surprise at all.

DEIMOS

SUNJATA

the flood

anyway, you say you're too busy
saving everybody else to save yourself

“You didn’t see him when he was captured, Deimos.” Granted, all Sunjata could still see was his husband, muzzled like a wild animal, a feral gleam in his gaze. Oh, but he’d heard the story. “I trust him to care for himself and look out for himself, but there is nothing he can do if the Voice ceases to exist.” The look he gives Deimos is a fractured, shattered glass of steel, as if he’d thought about how Nate might try to survive the onslaught without the one there to give him the fuel necessary to simply survive. But he doesn’t think it necessary to explain it.

Deimos would know, after all. His closeness to Rexanna and Kiada assured him of that.

But he draws into himself, visibly flinching as Deimos forces those feelings down through the bond, cascading on a pitiful attempt of Sunjata trying his hardest to shut the Sword out. It ends up in white knuckles on the table, a gasp, such dread pooling in his stomach that he has to pace his breaths. “Then I fucking appreciate the generosity.” He snaps, grit out and quiet, before he’s readjusting in his seat.

“I’ve lost people too, Deimos. I can’t be this calculating, spying, ex-king like you. So by all means, fucking do it better than I did for Kiada, but do not come into my home and berate me when I am trying. I know I hurt Hotaru, I know I hurt Nate, but it was never done intentionally.” Muscles feather in his jaw and he stands suddenly, trying to get some distance from the shouting feelings down the bond. “You can get off your high horse any fucking time you want.” He manages to make it to the kitchen, his fingers trembling where he bunches them into a fist and stares back at Deimos, waiting for the next move.

and you don't want no help, oh well
that's the story to tell

death, you bring death and destruction to all that you touch

But what could Safrin do, that she couldn’t have tried before? It was a complexity, a web, a multitude of theories, problems, and dilemmas, that likely weren’t going to have any good endings. The Flood was stalling – much in the way all of them were. But the rest of them weren’t out ruining relationships, battering apart friendships, and breaking apart at the seams because of it. “Then how is Safrin supposed to take care of him?” A dive into the unknown, with more bridges and enigmas, and all of it felt like a lost cause before it ever began. If the Voice was gone? And with his further ascension –

The Sword bit down on his own jaw, felt it clench and feather, thought about Kiada, Bastien, Azrael, and the whole rest of them. But Deimos would never wander toward chosen gods and disciples, asking for the individuals to be changed, to be altered, or to guarantee something that could only be bought and paid for in lives exchanged. It was just as unfair to whatever child Sunjata had sired, then it had been to Nate and Hotaru.

The Harpy had made her choice. So had the Penumbra. So had all of the rest of them. So had he.

He didn’t even bother conveying a hint of irritation at the snap – billowing away the abhorrence; it’d been clear, it’d been concise, it’d been direct. He ignored it for its worth – nearly nothing – taking another drink, and raising the glass to his esteemed generosity, absorbing the moment, collecting back the sinister webs and eaves of his nefarious heart. At the declaration of not being like the General, Sunjata only earned a head tilt. “That much is obvious.” He was fairly certain the Flood had never thought out anything in his entire life.

But he’d certainly earned this berating – whether within the confines of his home, out in the wayward storm, or somewhere else. “I will do what I can for Kiada, with her permission. If she asks for help, I will give it to the best of my ability.” Much as he’d done for her on LongNights; capable of giving and granting and assisting, but only when she called for it. Glass back on the table, he watched the fool flutter around his kitchen – all his trying, all his efforts, all his trials and tribulations – and for what? Calm and composed again, the Colossus drummed his fingers against the resin, contemplating, shrugging away the high horse comment with evident dismissal. “Does that make it better? That you did it unintentionally – but still without their consent?”

DEIMOS

SUNJATA

the flood

anyway, you say you're too busy
saving everybody else to save yourself

“I imagine she’d barter with Vi.” He replies quickly, though he has no confirmation on it. Nothing aside from Safrin’s claim that had Nate done what she’d asked of him, that she would use that as proof to the big gods that they should work to fix the Ascended to rely less on the Voice, if at all. But he can’t get those thoughts out, doesn’t even want to acknowledge them as Deimos barrages him. It sends his head spiraling, throbbing enough that Sunjata needed space from the General.

The glass is raised in a mock toast and Sunjata feels his scarred face shifting into something akin to a sneer as he regards Deimos. Sunjata snaps, lashes out at the Sword – perhaps due to some part of him that wished that someone understood why he was the way he was, why something like this could happen, why it did happen – when he realizes that the only one that did was Nate. And Nate had left too.

As soon as Deimos pulls those tendrils away, Sunjata sags against the counter, keeping his narrowed gaze on Deimos as if he expected the General to simply disappear and reappear before him. “And if she doesn’t want your help? Have you picked a side? Will it be you she sees opposite from her on the battlefield?” He lashes out again, teeth clicking as he snaps his jaw shut. “Will you be the one that has to kill her?” He stops himself before he utters Rexanna’s name, knowing better than that, but from Sunjata’s side of the bond an unbridled mix of rage and despair crosses and mixes together.

Deimos could remain as cool and calm as he wanted, but Sunjata didn’t have to. There wasn’t a reason he needed to right now. “No. It doesn’t fucking make it better. Where did I say that it did?” He manages to push himself off the counter to straighten up a bit. “Where did I say I wasn’t blaming myself for all of this shit? I know I fucked up. I have apologized with no expectations of forgiveness from either of them. So what exactly is the point of you being here aside from reminding me how horrible of a person I am?”

and you don't want no help, oh well
that's the story to tell

death, you bring death and destruction to all that you touch

Would Safrin barter with Vi? Would the herald truly go to such lengths? Would Vi care? There was a long standing history of hatred and vigilance against the Ascended, and while Deimos was certainly not privy to the Old God’s beliefs, thoughts, or patterns, the likelihood of it going well seemed precarious at best. He winced inwardly at the proposition, at the aspect of it all falling hopelessly flat, and the pile of ruins and wreckage damned and due to occur. They were headed towards war. Angles drawn. Sides posturing, sneering, rebelling. Perhaps the Sword existed in a mindset built for plotting, scheming, and calculating, and not hoping.

Sunjata could sputter and rage and sneer all he wanted; it was met with apathy and indifference, the cold outlook of the Reaper seditiously spread along nonchalant features. He could lash out all he wanted, the result would likely be the same – the piercing nature of his gaze settling back upon the Flood as he tried to angle it back towards him. One could almost hear the tides of Rexanna entering the fold. “I have made my share of mistakes, but I learned from them.” he admitted and offered. Sunjata had heard them all before. They’d even conversed along the General’s plans to amend and right the wrongs, as best he could. “We have yet to discuss it.” Something damned and due to happen in the near future, unfortunately. A minor semblance of trepidation warred between his ribs, but that was for neither here nor there. “I have always had a side.” And begrudged none of them for their choice in Gods – he’d been proud of the Penumbra for finding a way to escape Zariah, for having Bastien, and eventually Azrael (even if there’d been apprehension in that too), for choosing herself instead of every other god damned thing.

It’d be the same for Kiada. They’d both known it the moment she rose again – reincarnated, but indebted to the Voice.

But he didn’t answer the other inquiries – because he didn’t know.

As for the other loaded questions, the beast snorted. “You knew this was coming.” Since that day in the woods, hunting and exploiting, taking opportunities – and the regret that came with not ending the fool’s life right then and there. It would’ve put an early end to the recklessness and the demolition. “I am sorry for what happened to you with your father and Remi.” From what he’d heard and been told, those precarious reaches hadn’t been all Sunjata’s doing. “However, I expected to see you had changed. That there would be something else in your explanations.” Desperation, maybe. But the sweeping boldness, impulsivity, and impetuous nature remained. “But you continue to leave so much wreckage around you, and I am tired of seeing those in my family hurt by your actions."

DEIMOS

SUNJATA

the flood

anyway, you say you're too busy
saving everybody else to save yourself

A scoff leaves Sunjata when Deimos talks of learning from his mistakes. “Good for you, then.” He’d pair it with an eye roll if he wanted to dare to take his eyes off the Sword. As for the rest of it? He chews at the inside of his ruined cheek until he can nearly taste iron on his lungs, watching him intently — a predator to a predator with the creatures that lined both of their skins. “Does she know which side you’ve picked?” He asks instead, wondering if it was a conversation or a realization that they’d likely find themselves on opposite sides, because Sunjata’s under the assumption that Deimos was going to fight for the Old Gods if his marriage to Amalia and her piety was any indication.

He tries to remain calm, to smooth his thundering heartbeat, until Deimos speaks up again. “Don’t you dare offer your sympathies for that.” He snaps suddenly. He didn’t want to hear apologies for his father or for the Remi murder, and inwardly he breaks further at the realization that Hotaru must have told him. “You do not get to pretend you know how I can better myself. I am surviving the best I can, no thanks to you.” His teeth click again as he stares at Deimos. “You know, Peter and Adam don’t blame me for what happened with the dragon. I blamed myself. You blamed me. You and Amalia and everyone else, too. And I have tried to atone for it for years.” Muscles feather in his jaw. “And you know what else? It took me months to get my mind back after the lightning rod incident, where I should have died. Don’t try to pretend you could handle it better. Don’t sit there and tell me how you could have done it better.”

He takes a sharp inhale, shakes his head, feels the armored plates of the dragon shift begin to crawl along his arms and neck again. “I think you should leave.” He manages, once he’s finally tasting blood on his tongue.

and you don't want no help, oh well
that's the story to tell

death, you bring death and destruction to all that you touch

How very like Sunjata to scoff at the notion of learning. It almost made him laugh – but they were too far gone into the midst of all the tethers and lines now, eyes affixed, watching, waiting, taking his time in measures and details. “That is between her and I.” And he certainly wasn’t about to unravel notions of a conversation that had yet to occur to the Flood.

And then there was more and more and more – concepts the Governor of Torchline seemed to be sorely lacking. Deimos had long since offered his apologies for the lightning rod incident, a slip of a hand that had clearly been far beyond that. So he remained seated throughout the tirade, reticence intact, callbacks to Reaper predilections and Basin outcries; withstanding the deluge of ridiculousness as he’d done so many times before. Stone and steel, relatively unmoved by the temper tantrums – save for Peter and Adam’s ability to forgive. The Sword certainly lacked the clemency trait; he wouldn’t have survived all these years and lifetimes if he constantly granted mercy.

Another breath and then there were more, until he furnished his own eye roll. “That is not what I said – but I see you are past the point of reason and listening.” Twisting and turning, words upon words, empty and vacuous, heedless and insipid, and he rose to stand, having said all he needed to. Well, save for one parting gesture. “Then leave my brethren out of your stupefying decisions, and we will be fine.” One could only hope this would be one of the few times he’d have to deal with the dunce again anyway.

Sunjata could have his armored plates, his draconic shift, his multitude of dilemmas and problems. The Sword had said his piece, and with a wave, and motioning the glass towards the sink with his Air incantations, he shook his head, and left with only a passing glance out into the storms. “Good luck.”

{FIN}

DEIMOS