Prometheus

and Pyr

It doesn’t take long for him to come—that black reaper of the north, cutting through the crisp winter fog with predatory strides to stand like a sentinel before us, and brother—I welcome him. Confidently I meet his gaze, my filthy, tattered curtain of ghoulish thoughts and twisted intentions smoothed out to satin beneath this façade I wear, this trick of life. Am I not beautiful, brother? (Deceivingly, malevolently, and treacherously beautiful?) I suppress a dark chuckle with a sly twist of my lips, the skin like velvet as they press together into a grin (and where is the blood that dribbles from my chin? The death that clings to the very crux of my body?).

‘It can never truly leave you, brother.’

My grin deepens, a swell of pride blooming brilliantly before it is cut, severed by the sharp, unrelenting blade of—and what do you suppose it is? What is regret, what is shame? I wasn’t made for these things, for remorse, with only the thirst for blood and deceit raging through my dead, rotting veins—and I can see it. Forever, I can see the violence—my violence—in the scars that ensnare your powerful body, your skin mutilated by those chains (by me), and I can see all that I was.

Oh, but brother—I have become so much more with you! We are one, you and I. With the wrath of trickery and power, of death and fire, they will know us once again. I can almost taste it brother! My tongue is wet with desire, impatience, but firmly you bid caution to my restless mind, pushing patience upon me. We will have our time, brother; but for now, I focus on the mountain king, and it is only then when thin threads of memories are pulled through my mind, guided by a sharp needle of death.

I feel the cold claws reach for you first, thirsty for your breath and the steady beating of your heart, before I feel my own guise of life stroked by these frigid fingers. Instinctively I bristle, whipping my long tail sharply before I spare you a glance to ensure your safety (because I cannot lose you again, brother), though you assure me with a low growl. Perhaps I am momentarily too distracted to notice the flickering of my magic across my face, the faintest shimmer of ruin, bone, and rotted muscle marring perfect skin, before I return my attention to Deimos, as flawless as a God.

He is the quintain now. “Your memory is impressive, Lord Deimos,” my voice swells in this beautiful veneer, something between a purr and a growl while glowing, unblinking eyes settle steadily on the Reaper. So, I have not been completely forgotten in my absence? The pleasure that swells between us would be tangible could it be perceived by anyone else, brother, but this victory is only for us now. We will see what Helovia has left to offer us, what lies in these mountains now (and what is worthy). Vultures we might be, you and I, but now we must feast like kings.

“Once, many years ago, within these very mountains. Tell me, does the Dark Empress still hold her crown?” I offer the slightest tilt of my head, wondering what has become of the politics, of this land that once stood upon the others like a lion conquers its prey. Do you think it is still worth our time, brother? “My name is Prometheus,” I nearly sigh, though my voice is powerful as it slithers through the wintry air, complementing the clever twist of my lips, “I have come seeking acceptance once again.”


notes; So sorry for the wait, I'll try to get them up faster!
“Speech.”