Omniscient, pressing death fixated his world upon the breadth and breath of life, became intertwined and tangled into the seditious claws of irony, listened to the echoing chasm and synapse of insurrection rasping against his sinew. A pulsing, maddening collapse of his upheaval, relentlessly isolated, eternally desolate, forlorn, abandoning virtue, divinity, morality and companionship for the calloused bombardments, for the sinuous necromancy, pervading the blackened portions of his soul. He found his nefarious, sinister web drawn and laced, woven and plaited, into the formation of another, into the figurine of a beloved, thrust and thrown into the strange, foreign culmination of his pride, his heritage, his legacy, burning deep into the stoic, reticent walls of his heart. They didn’t melt, they didn’t yield, they didn’t crumple or falter into the brink of tenderness, but allowed the minute bend, the smallest snippet, the warmest sliver to burrow and bury itself into the confinements of his insurrection - family - and the Reaper wondered if the trebles, the din, the weight of this anarchic occasion filtered towards his father, his mother, his relatives lingering amidst the depths, if they recalled their little lethal, dangerous scion dancing amongst the wallowing beaches, the siren songs, the necromancy flowing through his veins, and if his child would be suited in the same way. Would greatness flicker down through its veins, chiseled and refined, sculpted in the masterful tapestries and canvases of diabolical oeuvre, run over coals, ash and embers, armed and almed with invocations of his prowess, his precision, his pernicious pursuits and endeavors? Would it be cursed, blessed, reverent and licentious, heeding the hymns of opulence, decadence, grandeur and audacity? Would it aspire for conquest, for triumph, for victory over the layers and lacquer of its enemies? Or would it rest amongst the stars, a careful, calm repose, painted by its mother’s delicate brushstrokes, made from filmy, gauzy air, ethereal and contained in the rapture and reverie of composure, never flickering away from its dutiful purpose? Would it carry the weight of scars, would it bear the march of brutality, and would it seize every opportunity to enact its own barbarous distortions, a child of chaos and calamity, turbulent, vicious, wild storms and the finale of life? Would treachery mar its way, or would it blossom amongst the villainous whims and capricious efforts of others, be rendered capable from the mighty capacity and aptitude it bore from birth, destined with the ravenous predilection, the merciless presage of gales?

Deimos waited in the hushed cave, inefficient for anything else but protection and patience, standing amongst the howl of the wind, the shriek of the tempest, watching, the deleterious sentinel. He couldn’t offer the raingirl a soothing conjecture for pain, for torment, for agony, he couldn’t provide a torturous release, he couldn’t bestow anything but the overwhelming tremors of his protection, blocking the rest of the world from the vulnerable tresses of the brewing moment. Like an inept, ignorant child, he merely stared into the darkening abyss of the cavern, with its shielding walls, it secure ceiling, its clinging sanctuary for mother and child, paused, straying and staying from the darkening corridors, from the sinuous sepulchers, from the acrimonious assaults of his creation, remaining in the reclusive hold, awaiting the moment to see his first born.

The stoic, detached features only changed upon her arrival, blossoming and gilded, sacred, sanctified, holy and divine – an angelic, seraphic blend of her mother, of his blood, of all the bits and pieces once broken, contained, whole, corporeal, tangible sparks of sanctity and Elysium. His lips, once firm, once straight-edged, serrated into nothingness, revealing nothing, accentuating naught, twisted and turned into a wide, boyish, handsome smile. Overwhelmed and overwrought, the Reaper’s face fell into a state of paradoxical bliss, shaped into warmth, brief glimpses of tenderness between the piercing requiem of his stare, stone weathered, eroded, by the harmonic, childish twist of flowers, of petals, of a life brought from wreckage, ruin, a swinging scythe, a brilliant, cascading repose of droplets and water. Stunned into silence, he simply took in the trembling legs, the quivering limbs, the flourishing blossoms, the peace, the delighted, serene, tranquil Huyana, the belle of the glades swindling in her newfound home. He reached out into the darkness, strived to touch the air closest to her, to relish the presence, the wonder, the grace and benediction of his daughter, and for once, wished he could touch another without strangling their hymns, their croons, their murmurs, another tragic requiem to add to its devastating effects. Instead, he merely extended his argent nape, his blackened muzzle, and promised, in the rapturous, clinging hum of quietude, to protect, to devote, to honor, cherish, shield and defend every inch of her frame, every beat of her heart, every elegant turn of her mind. In the dim of the cavern, as sunlight filtered back into the wavering horizon, he uttered the herald, the crown of her namesake, christened and devout in the awakening, fluttering beat of augured sentiments. “Lothíriel,” rasped over his tongue, along the walls, upon her crown, where it promised to dwell, harbor and beguile.

Deimos yearned to ignore the newcomer, Carnesir, banging upon the threshold of the cave, called and swindled from some damned place to bestow another tale, another story, offer his blessings and siblinghood. Instantly demonic, the monster returned to the portals of his diabolical measures and machinations, the brooding affirmation of his taciturn demeanor chiseled its way across his brow, along his eyes, unholy and rapacious, ravenous, capable of unfurling, uncurling, the clarity of his power and enchantments, strung back into silence, twisting his glare and frame towards the youth, warning and advising against further steps. Others would be given opportunity to see their child, and not by bombarding in with foolish notions and scholarly dreams.

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