the apple of your eye, the rotten core inside; any.

[Pollock]

“Hm.”

They are like two great, iron rams locking horns for the sake of feeling them crack together – for the sake of hearing the noisiness of their own power. They are the kind of men that do not coexist – they’ll wait, a hundred towering, broad-backed behemoths, for the right moment to strike the other down.

Fine. He knows many of these men.

He respects them; conspires against them. And one day, one of them will raze him to the ground.

(One of his sons, perhaps? This war machine? A father? Brother?

The weight of a million memories, seeking him endlessly?)

The lifecycle of a monster.

“In my experience, even once you’ve tasted, you can still get it wrong.” It would never sit well, to know how ineffectual his labours have really been. Skin is as easily mended as it is broken, it would seem. Sometimes. 

Sometimes, bones do not obey the base law of might (splitting axis from atlas – should have been goodnight! And yet, those stilled and oxygenless lips and lived another day to smirk at him); sometimes, the soil hemorrhages blood, filling up ruptured, hungry vessels. (He’ll never forget that cracked altar – that beautiful and profaned holy site.)

“So I choose to be wary of my senses. They are like so many disloyal things. Sometimes.”

Deimos. He smiles, “I am, for the most part, a good judge of character.” 

She calls, blood to blood; depravity to depravity. The gift giver turns, says little more as they pass by the mountain’s looming, purple bruise. It holds so little over them now. Pangea is like a rabid dog on her heels – forged from unwilling flesh and home, now, to a multitude of parasitic creatures:

—Deimos, Harmonia and the blessed son, wielding powers she had meant to keep to Herself.

“Welcome. I will find you again, Deimos, I think we could work well together, you and I.” He leaves him on the border of their vast, aching kingdom, turning to her western shoreline and his thoughts, nestled on the cliffs, waiting to hatch.

ooc - that was not good, and nobody deserves this :/ figured just end it there, keep one timeline, I might throw Pollock into his Pangea thread, if I can write anymore.