The art of ancestry boiled, seared, and severed their veins, a collected maelstrom, a brimming, nefarious oeuvre to the mastery of deceit, to the harbingers of doom and Machiavellian threads, to the whittled armaments of callous, colossal chaos. In each scathing, caustic, savage, corroding stroke was a bestial flame, fire and brimstone, lacquers and layers of chilling raptures and devilish quandaries. Gifted and presiding with the bestowal of oblivion; where so many creeds faltered, fell, stumbled, quivered and quavered, theirs held strong, a universal enmity and hostility coating their lungs, their bones, their ichor. Little pieces and slivers of old, arcane artifice; she, playing the gods, angels, seraphs and reverence, placating, soothing, assuaging, cutting and snarling, ripping and mauling until the fiendish gleam of her smile washed away the traces of her innocence, lacerated guile. He, cold and ruthless, destroying and puncturing with the remorseless siege of demise, of wickedness, hiding naught but the vague recollections of emotions and sentiments, ruining, slaying, swinging an immoral scythe until it ground against skin, until it ruptured against arteries. Collected together, in the misshapen, twisted, distorted armaments, cryptic, unholy, villainous heathens molded in the same glassy fixations, could only unravel the earth, could only poison the lands, could only breathe hellfire and obliteration, elimination and massacre, into the sown hearts of the divine. She’d seen him as the boy chasing sandy dunes, the quiet, wide-eyed scion, before the torment, before the anguish, before the rift in life and caresses, before he was stripped and devoid, forsaken and isolated, stolen from the idealistic frames of family and heritage. He’d seen her as the specious, whimsical, dancing girl offering divinity, nestled and soothing, before stealing it from the shackled, captured prisoners, the chained, rotting corpses, clutching and melting the fervor of lamentable beings. In other world, would he have followed her, painted the same canvases, the same chords, the same, bone-chilling lies and manipulations? Or was it his destiny to alter pathways with the blood, the scorn, the derision of upheaval and insurrection? Amongst their journeys, they must have felled many angels, many paragons, many treasures, listened to the wails, the screams, the screeching decibels of victims rendered vacuous and torn – and finally, upon the same threshold, the kingdoms would feel what it was to truly crumble.

Her voice laughed, peculiar, high, lilting, as singsong as her warbles across the forgotten sands, tumbling, rolling, reeling and mocking until each aria sauntered into the fathoms of the timeless waves; and he remained reticent. Had they even altered? Time only hastened the growth, the shape, of monsters, and to find her so familiar, so habitual and customary, with icy sonnets and glowering ambitions, relieved the taut muscles, the rigid strings of undulating cores and coils, he slipped away from the recherché and into the tome of childhood again. There was naught to hide, to shield, to shelter from his all-knowing sibling, blood of his blood, brutality of his brutality, might of his might, and the once blank features were christened and nestled into a curl, a slide, of his lips, inching upwards in a lop-sided smirk. The sleek, deep intonation of his vocals cast into the shadows, slithering, crawling, reveling in the mired cruelty brewing and gathering in their stead. “It is good to see you.” A moment passed as she grew closer and he faded away, the strangling, suffocating abyss of his touch rarely yielded, and though he could control, contort, distort for lapsing seconds and snippets, the probable mishaps overweighed and overwrought the ability to caress his family. She seemed to understand, remember, calculate and examine the odds, merely tracing the glacial expanse of her powers over the infernal hands of his necromancy. He tilted his head, and was suddenly a juvenile again, curious, examining, inquisitive and calculating, weaving the heady strands of meticulous designs and schemes amongst his scheming mind. “What do you seek here?” The Reaper desired the knowledge in order to compose, orchestrate, construct and sculpt the musing, the revolution, the sedition and subversion brought by his sister, by tied bloodlines fastened and bleeding into the entrails, into the innards, of beatific benedictions. Power fused with power only offered the reveries and decadence of licentious bonds, extorted, condemned and corrupted.

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