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05-30-2016, 06:12 PM
 He was cold. He was merciless. He was unkind, unforgiving, relentless. He was immoral and savage, wild and brutal, soulless and depraved. He was monstrous and ruthless, and he wore whatever armor, paint, namesake, or moniker they gave him. He was a sword to his brethren, a weapon to the devil, and armor for the snow and rime. He bore many things, straight across his shoulders and back, down into the columns of his chest, past the dim glow of his nefarious heart, and said naught of the exhaustion he felt. He’d lost and won, then lost, lost, lost until he couldn’t recall what it was he’d actually gained in all the mayhem, all the glory. He was loyal, he was strong, he was diligent, he was born to tides and sands, then lifted to cliffs and mist, and tied, tethered, sewn in blood and bone to the mountains. But none of it mattered.
The Reaper could’ve walked the halls, the corridors, the caverns for centuries, and none of it would’ve mattered. He could be a ghost, a wraith, a phantom, wandering into tombs and catacombs, peering through furtive chambers and unlocked doors, for a hint, for a sign, a direction, for what he was supposed to be doing, and none of it would’ve mattered. He could peer through mirrors, cracks, and crevasses, and all he would see was the pale nothingness staring him back in the face – because, in reality, what had he ever accomplished? What had he ever done? How was he going to be remembered? As death? As desecration? As a catalyst to the ruin of the Basin? Or barely recollected at all – bones tossed aside one of the many cliffs, forgotten, abandoned, an empty throne filled again? You are naught, the winds seemed to whisper, and he stood amongst their threshold, whipped and tarnished, decrepit and withered, frayed and tired. But the winter King didn’t lower his head to the ground, hang it low and bent, weary and fatigued. Instead, he wandered, over and over again, the endless, eternal cycle of what he knew and what he understood (protection, he could compose a tome of what it meant to flay, murder, and desecrate the ones who dared to endanger his kin), piercing, puncturing eyes staring out into the void. He’d see shadows, crumbling metal, barbaric, festering eaves, and still, not have a clue how to fix them. Lord, was he willing, was he trying, was he praying for something to strike him down in his Machiavellian skull and grant him the wisdom to be more than what he was. Instead, his gaze settled on rosy hues, a balance of pink against the stark backdrop of spring laurels and empty firs; the Queen, nestled on her peace and sanctity, resting on what little sanctum or sanctuary they’d been given in life. The beast thought about leaving her entirely, alone and adrift, to snatch and entangle the small snippets and hours of silence, and he could catch the next blade, the next countenance of shadow and sun, brood, slither, serpentine there until he received a reply to all his queries, all his quests, all his designs. But he remembered the way she’d appeared at the meeting (that disastrous, hellish gathering), bloody and warped, stained and marked. “Hotaru,” he spoke, serious and impassive, voice gravelly from lack of use (because he’d stayed away, away, away from them, so neither could disappoint the other again). There was more he thought to say, to drag from his tongue, but naught appeared – the same as so many other tides before, rolling and leaving him behind, drowned in the wake of his own flaws, failures, and defects. DEIMOS
delivered from the blast
last from a line of lasts and now the kingdom comes crashing down undone |
image credits
@Hotaru
