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09-01-2013, 07:53 PM
The General knew himself well enough, as one discovers their munitions, their smoking guns, when left to their own devices for twisting, withering, rotten, desolate years, idle time passing between youth and adulthood where separation and strangulation caused indifference, to note he would never pursue the heaven’s flickering touch as she did. He’d long since fallen from grace, never the paragon, never the epitome of anything but the clutching, scarred grasp of nefarious ideals and wicked intentions, pieces of collected scythes, rapiers and cutlasses mortared together into a ruffian, brutal statue. Satan’s proffered son, not made for slithering half-truths and simpering smirks, only the grinding particles of pain, of anguish, of the hushed, breathless gaze of death trickling over fragile forms, bending, breaking, friction finding bones, arteries, sinew, piercing until flesh turned to ash. If he’d ever been a scion, it was for ruin, for disaster, for catastrophe and mayhem, where bleeding hearts left trails of worn paths to follow, to discover, to grab and tear when he’d found their collapsed bodies. He never hunted and howled for light, divinity or virtue, the only elements he shadowed were the cool, chilling detachments of darkness, its distorted enigmas, its fiendish whispers courting his veins to pulse, and the blazing tempests of fire and all its wrath, all its fury, all of its ire igniting the particles, the heritage, the beliefs and creeds of his ancestors. But she clamored for illumination and brilliance, for the brightening skies and the glittering touch of the sun scattering across their rocky outcrops, their heinous valley, and he couldn’t give any of it to her. He wouldn’t know how to cross the skies, to ensnare the scattered droplets of stars and peel them across the horizon, to ask instead of command, to beg and plead instead of demand. They were inundated in the wake of the darkness’s everlasting embrace, and for a few moments, he stared off into its endless abyss, to the moon, to the nocturnal splendor, and understood why she suffered beneath its reign.
Where he could stand beneath its suffocating countenance, absorb, drink and savor its unholy armaments, she resisted, a creature of nymph quartets and courtyards, where the courtiers melted and molded into laurels, beautiful, regretful disasters, constantly fevered with remorse, lined with repentance, contrite, guilty, for all the things they had no control over. She allowed herself to be swallowed by the sheer domination of damnation, and where he joined its corruption, its immorality and depravity, debauchery sketched over the outline of his immoral prowess, she’d become engulfed and enveloped by a lack of peace, no repose, no reverie - he couldn’t bestow her raptures either. With nothing to proffer, Deimos remained hushed, considered her regard in the layered coils of the spring’s rising steam as the heat sank into his muscles, drugged and dragged his carcass into soothing livelihoods, with none to give her. No altruistic gestures, no empathic vocals, no understanding regard passing from his lips, only the sinister silence of his apathetic, hardened stare, gazing deeply into the forlorn features of her downcast woes. It was obvious she’d not found what she sought, brought back to the frigid walls, the heedless earth, to the licentious caverns hovering and cavorting with mayhem and menace, alone and out of place. He was left to wonder why she’d returned at all, when faced with the encroaching, pervading malice. Was it for the pressing nature of homes, kingdoms and loyalties, tied down by honor? Companions, brethren, brothers in arms and peace, combined to extend her salvation when the air stifled it? Or something else altogether, more mysteries left to unravel, disentangle, separate? The ruminations were left stifled, unuttered and unanswered.
At her inquiry, the Reaper drew his attention away from her stare, down to the embankment marked by softening shoal and silt, the water intertwining and mingling with her hooves, constant reinforcement of her union with waves, sand and sea. Did she think to join him, converge with death again, or was she merely desperate for rain, for the taste, the touch of water cascading over her frame, willing to share with the other occupant of its finest tirade? He would have remembered if it had rained, immersing and submerging their souls in its cold strokes, sensations of delusional deluges, but it’d been too chilling, too unrelenting, the finest caresses of his own seditious, merciless season, winter rolling and reeling in its vicious, villainous haze. When Birdsong contorted, they’d attacked in the flood and veil of darkness, invaded with the refinement of clouds and shadows, but no, no showers shared and shattered over the mist and murk of their resolution. His voice was gruff again, restored to its archaic denizen and design, walls placed back over the threshold of their audacious creator. “No.” Perhaps he would have stood in its overwhelming depths, recalling and reflecting, reminded of his moments fighting with mortality, incapable of siphoning its power for himself, loosened and slackened in its cool finesse. If he asked her to call for its dominance, would she? To drown him in the curtain of its supremacy, to counter the weight of all his disappointments, all their failures, all the bitter aftertaste of their foiled plans, crusades and sieges? To combine with the murky reign of the hot springs, leave him blended and fused into statue, monster and molten heathen? Instead, he backed away, shuffled a few steps further against the opposite bank, granting her room should she wish to enter the vivid quarters without the swarm of death crushing, annihilating, and languishing the hold of her presence. He said naught more, lowering his head to press his lips into the water, treating the silence as an open invitation to repent.
