Midnight, nocturnal convolutions and revolutions: Death brought life again, and the paradoxical haze was not lost on him for the second time, counting down the hours until his Persephone was free from pain and his son was brought into the world. However he’d wrought these blessings, from the channels, the streams, the rivulets of anarchy, of commotion, of annihilation and persecution, he wouldn’t rebuff or spurn their benevolent acts – and instead, molded it to his might, to his dedication, to his protection all the more. Once sinister, the Reaper was only brought to his knees by the delicate curve of his lover’s opulence, of his children’s breaths of life, lending his strength, his fortitude, his domination in the fervor, in the zeal, of their enduring prowess. He brought his dark maw first to trace, to ghost, over Huyana’s nestled, bundled frame, an intoxicating whisper forged in the glory of the diabolical hallelujahs, sinuous raptures of the irreverent and licentious, of the cruel and callous, of the merciless – but never to her. "“You did well.” The slight indentation of a smile, a grin, chiseled its way into the corner of his lips, furnished and hidden by shadow and intrigue. Then to the child, the little scion fostered from crypts and rivers, a combination of mist and corruption (condemned or mired, gifted or cursed), sketching the idle sway of his mother’s coloration, lending what little touch he could proffer, quick, swift, instantaneous, then gone, for the slight fear, the greatest hesitation, that he could maul his own babe with too long of a hold of demise, of quietus. So he remained staunch, proud, stalwart, relentless, standing over the newest addition to ice, to malice, to repose, and gazed at the miniature spark of strength and bastions, pondered over the glory, the legends, the legacies pulled into the colt’s lineage, future, augured prospects and presaged tales. Would he be ruthless, menacing in the moonlight, calculating and malevolent, poisoning their enemies? Would he be gentle, reverent like his dam’s lulling rain, sighing in repose, eager to help, to guide, his fellow patriots? Would he follow his sibling’s cheeky grins or elegant ministrations? Or would other pathways fall before him, another descendant of kings, forging his own wayward strife, his own triumphs and conquests? In an instant, he crooned a christening, tying little knots of fate and damnation, primordial interludes, arcane reticence, darkness pervading tomes. "“Erebos.”

i'm not here looking for absolution,

because I found myself an old solution