A shift in the paradigm, swindling away the sensual, ravenous, epicurean exploits, sharpened the keen resolution of the Reaper’s desires. No time for the sultry swings, the sinuous blend and bend of skin against skin, sin sliding upon virtue, robbing paragons of sight and blinding the folds of flesh to the ire, to the tribulation, of manifested, carnal regime. No lids half-shut, no mouths taut with the silent opus of nuptials and sweet-nothings, torn from the fray with the heavy cadence of rain shuddering against the cold, chilling, wistful ends of shelter and sanctuary. Affection swayed from her gaze, and his chiseled, piercing stare traced to the stone apertures, irritated by the change in disposition, by the reality brutally marring and maiming even the briefest of tete-a-tetes, listening to the chords woven in murky, dwindling tranquility. The slip of her maw against his ear, the tilt of his frame sinking towards her fathoms, captured the distinction of her words, wanton and enticed, then hostile and turbulent all over again. Darkness – there was always darkness (and some days he was the one to fill the void of its hollowed schemes, instigating and fueling the threads of saints and reverent souls with the canvas of necromancy and abhorrence), channeling and filtering into their decadent world. But perhaps this event would be different, would touch their lives in even more terror, deeper than the loss and failure of conquering, scathing and rancorous, derisive and rasping, grating against nerves, against minds, against entities pulsing with resolution, determination, brutality and violence. She was dipped in fear, and he loathed the very notion of it, that the realm brewed with such wild-eyed hunger, not even his own, but foreign and intangible, not easily destroyed, unattainable and unreachable, incapable of being terrorized in the same stead. And what more could he do? How could he stretch his arms wide enough to engulf their kingdom in the safety net of his blackened, charred heart, of his nefarious yearnings and deplorable actions, how could he secure the hold of their supremacy, of their ascendancy, when his powers could not touch upon the apocalyptic brow? Was he to be useless, ineffectual, another inept blight along the horizon, some nameless individual to be entombed by an invisible hand? No, his heathen mind choked, he would not let them falter beneath his daggers, not while he still breathed, lived, reigned.

The Reaper’s mouth ran over her ear, coaxed the rough candor of their machinations, no longer stoked by the finery of licentious stirrings, swift, abrupt, decided, and final. “We must leave.” His stare rendered towards hers once more, penetrating, alluding, promising a reticent conviction through the brief quietude. Deimos was nearly afraid to offer her too many things at once (because he was capable, he was powerful, he was might and domination, but he knew naught about the world imploding upon them), but the press, the ache, the devoted, beloved doldrums between them remained a steadfast hold. Words curled and coiled in the midst and mist of the cavern, a shuddering breath, rapture in the haunting, poignant escapade, a halting command. “Retrieve Loth. Go to the Sanctuary.” And then, one feral kiss exhaled and brewed along her cheek, beneath her chin, along her nape, brushstrokes of the damned and corrupt, but immersed with the only principled ethics he held, providence, shelter, refuge, influence and mastery in the daunting, merciless wake. “You will always be protected.” Then, he turned, away from the stone, away from the showers, the rain, the drowning effusion and deluge carved around his entity, an archaic monolith guarding his kingdom from a discarnate force.

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