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09-07-2015, 12:42 PM
Deimos contained himself for the stretch of time and expanse glowing and pulsing beneath their feet – his heart was enthralled, despaired, moved to munitions and damned to snippets of euphoria. The beast tucked a hidden smile between his solemn mouth and magnificent nonchalance, grinning beneath the widening shadows and slinking secrets, and if he were bolder, he may have turned to wink at his daughter, casting his eyes in more shades of blue and wistfulness, feasting his gaze upon her blossomed, safe, secured presence, promising to never let go. But he was veiled too, tangled in all their voids, all their sorrows, all their regrets, locked in the gallows of her latest confession (I lost her), and realizing he’d lost her now too – and even if he grasped, clenched, and held tight to each tiny raindrop beckoning across Birdsong’s mirth, it would never be her. The sea would call him back like a siren, and it would never be her. The dew would linger in the embrace of the sun, and it would never be her. He was helpless all over again, and he loathed reliving the experience – but refused to believe she was truly gone. He would know. He would sense it. The ghosts of his path would like to have drowned him, perhaps, bestial and savage and without mercy: sometimes, she came to him as a hallucination, a withering, slinking mirage, basking in the downpour outside of his cave, serenading, cajoling… The Reaper swallowed back the bile enclosing his throat, the acrid, noxious taste of enduring grief, the pungent, bitter sentiments of his failures leaping back at him (because he couldn’t go or chase after her, and she was out in the thickets and meadows of another world, and he could do nothing), and tried to prevail over the notion that at the very least, his child had returned to him. Bright, beautiful, blooming and fair, powerful and prophetic, sweeping the earth with flowers at her feet and foreboding in her whims; he slowed and turned towards her as they rambled along the icy pathways, across the frozen corridors, desperate and content all at once. “Welcome home.” He gestured towards the nefarious sentinels stoic and sullen above them, at the cascading mountains, at the thrones and vigilantes and pariahs tucked between each cavern and valley, then swiftly curled his stare back to her, and her alone. “I missed you,” he echoed from their last words along the locked gates; too radiant, too defiant, against all the sullen, desolate pieces mottled within his skull, sweeping away the Mephistophelean sentiments for the opportunity to cherish his daughter. “So did the Basin.” There, he winked, a brief return to the juvenile days tossed aside so many ages before, permitted the boyish grin to christen his features, sully the straight line of his lips, conjuring heartfelt wishes and silly sentiments only a father could dream, and wandering forth, into the nooks and crannies of their massive land so it may reclaim its lost princess all over again. The winter Lord could be doused in the shield of his sorrows another day – the present was worth celebrating. [flowers crowns time, yes?] i'm not here looking for absolution, because I found myself an old solution |
@Enna @Tiamat @Lothíriel
