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Deimos the Reaper You can't take back the cards you've dealt on this long and lonely road to hell the throne must be such a sad and lonely place All the layers, all the lacquer, all the glories, couldn’t pierce through the affection he held for his son, and he would’ve liked to have stood there with him forever, staring out along the icy valleys, the rimed, frosty eaves, dreaming of what the Basin could be instead of reminiscing over what they once had. The monster’s stare drifted from the dark bits of Erebos’ forelock to the horizon, ignoring the petulant ache in his bones, the wasting fatigue drowning and weighing over his shoulders – and he listened too, both infidels great attendants and studies, capable of finding faults and flaws, or traits and abilities, talents locked away until they were beckoned, shown the right path. The boy would try, he’d always been willing, chasing down the light, the virtues, the veritable unknown like it was a trusted ally; and Deimos had no doubt about the presumption. The final one, however, he could easily slice through – the Reaper had not been the best candidate for any position other than heathen, devil, and demolition, and most days he missed simply being able to bludgeon an enemy into submission, chasing down intruders, annihilating foes, slashing a fellow demon who’d been too treacherous, too devious, too threatening. His moments as Lord had been sparked and incensed by power, by supremacy, and by failure, and in some seasons they seemed to intertwine into just a mess. He didn’t deserve the credit his lad anointed him, but valued the loyalty regardless, arching a brow and snorting, touching the boy’s blue shoulder, already marked, scarred, hardened from the pursuit of battle. Maybe they’d match one day – all lined and pocked and disfigured from protecting what they valued the most, rendering them as trophies instead of places they might’ve succumbed. He gave him a gentle nudge, shaking his head, all truth and sentiment without the bitterness, without the rancor, without the rough edges of the cruelty he’d harbored – before turning to leave on the line of shadows and somberness, leaving the boy to his own unfolding story. “No. You will be better.”
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Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary
