When he was younger, a babe in the laurels, he had known affection, compassion, empathy, and tenderness. The caress of his mother’s warm maw, the devotion of his father, the kind, watching eyes of the herd; he’d grown with the promise of these fine things fostering his development. Perhaps he could have been kind, beneficent, loving, nurturing – a steadfast, valiant warrior poet, an intrepid, charming ambassador – but any of these vapid, sanguine dreams were demolished, ruined, upon his first birthday. Fate had not given him divine morality, drenching him in the sinister sinew of Mephistophelean decadence. The hopes were removed, dashed, and eventually devoured, consumed by the aching distortion of reaper potency. Little by little, his pernicious flesh destroyed flagrant benedictions, seeds withered, blooms grayed, then plains of verdant grass, creatures in copses of corpses; his body became a yearning, caressing fiber of death. Does one continue to love when everything they touch, embrace, stroke turns to ash? Does one continue to cherish when everything they care for could decay, shrivel, atrophy at their closeness? Does one continue to instill goodwill when their hand slaughters everything they come to revere? Does one continue to stay near when they steal the breath of those within reach? And so, he hardened, became a sculpture of cutlasses and rapiers, of audacity and insolence, of isolation and despair. Emotion was placed elsewhere, deep in the recesses of his frozen heart, where he couldn’t feel, where he couldn’t sense, where he would remain rooted to the fixtures of desolation and malevolence, the brooding weapon everyone could live without. The rotting, decaying argent prince, the dark, Stygian scion, waiting to be removed from the earth while he plunged his scythe into its beating doldrums. And from a flame, a nation helpless. Black, black heart. One cannot hurt when they are encased in nothingness.
He watched, silent, steady, and resolute, as the leader advanced. Sure, confident steps, the markings of a composed monarch, one who could reign with few worries. But he was getting too close, not a threat upon Deimos’s marble canvas, but upon his own fixture, this spotted sovereign. He crept into the doom of acerbic air, in the contorting, fiendish poison, the macabre twist of puissant venom, and the gray stallion’s entire body stiffened. Rigid, his nape snaked upwards to an imposing, daunting countenance, undulating muscles bunched and coiled, rippling with formidable, intimidating measures, one last threat before reality punctured and lanced the living, before the crawling dusk proved too wild, and the bestial clamor of the Grim Reaper swindled with acerbic ease. But the opposing stag continued, bringing himself nearer, and Deimos was struck by the thought that he had no desire to kill this beast, this strange stag who dared to come where no one had crossed in years, but the cruel, malicious entities of his presence could still stroke the fires of demise and damnation. He took a meticulous step backwards, not hesitant, but maintaining a swift, calculating air, a machination to keep the other creature amongst the living. Then the King blew upon his shoulder, a small, soft touch, and the sweltering convolution of bane and toxins pulsed, pervading the air, promising the same cold, chilling effusion of its creator: death, singing a listless requiem. Seconds thereafter, he was gone – and the stoic creation was left to softly release the breath he’d been holding. His nonchalant features rekindled, his wide stare fell back to its cool, aloof gaze, and his frame relaxed, no longer so firmly rigid. Vocals were strangled again though, sad, coarse, rough things that had been worked far beyond their limits, and could posture only a stiff response. ”I will.” A pause, then again, they were briefly reinstated. "What shall I call you?"
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master of nothing place, of recoil and grace
