There were a good many things he had expected—forms of anger or joy, mostly. But not.. pity. Upon seeing him something in her face and eyes grew soft, sorrowful even, as if his return caused her great pain—pain she could not blame him for. A fist clutched his heart. What had happened? Why this reaction? Had he, unwittingly, caused some disaster? Her voice was but the softest whisper upon the wind, as if any sound could startle him, and warily he turned his head slightly to the side, favoring her with a pale blue eye. Chauvinism? He guessed.. maybe.. he'd never truly looked upon himself, his actions and ideals, objectively; only known his agenda, his desires, and then.. then it'd all been Psyche's, and he was just tagging along, trying to be the King he'd been. And what was he now, that she favored him with such eyes, as if he might die any moment and she was sorrowful, but knowing it? Had something gone so horribly wrong that assassins were poised to strike from the shadows, and she nothing but the bait to lure him into their line of fire?

But—no, the air smelled of no one but Arah and himself, and so the reason for her pained expression remained a mystery. "Am I that pitiful a sight, huh?" he murmured quietly, drawing closer with soft, quiet footfalls. So pitiful that your heart breaks? He swallowed the disappointment, one ear flickering forward at the sound of her voice. She sounded incredibly uncertain, as if he was a caged, wounded beast that might lash out at any moment. He frowned. What had happened to her? To him? He'd simply taken off one day, earned a few more scars on body and soul, and now he was back, but did he deserve such a reaction from her? Or was there some other wild rumor flying around? Was he known for eating hearts, now? Had that Nyx gone home and blabbered about him and d'Artagnan and their wicked pets and wicked forms of entertainment?

"It's good to see you again, your disappearance caused a great upset." Her words seemed to contradict her sorrow, and he kept frowning. What was going on here? Something felt decidedly.. wrong somehow, like emotions and words weren't lining up, and his eyes swept the darkness for anything—danger, clues. Still nothing. He swallowed, ears turning back again in dejection. Of course his disappearance would've turned some things upside down, but they still had Psyche, hadn't they? She'd been in the Basin before he had, and she had remained when he left to stalk the sands of the south... And then the question came. Why did you leave? Was there hurt there? Bitterness, perhaps, at one of their protectors vanishing without a word? He lowered his eyes, stared at her knees for a moment. He had never meant to leave them so completely, to steal away into the darkness like that—but he'd not had many other viable options. He refused to say he'd had no choice, because he had had one. And he'd made the choice to run. Sarazheha had just been convenient enough to get him far, far away.

"I'm sorry, Arah," he said after a moment, raising his head to offer his blue eyes to her—if she wanted to meet them. Apologies couldn't make things right, but perhaps they could bridge a few gaps, start the mending of some wounds—he could apologize for having caused pain, but not for his decisions. They had been his, after all. And he'd made them himself. "At first I was on a mission for Psyche.. a dangerous business which took me out of the Basin for prolonged time. And then..." He fell silent a breath, remembering the first, blessed rays of silver moonlight across muted-red sands; Sarazheha a fleeting, inky shadow, Gaucho and Midas coming in like angels and those heavy, doom-riddled words of the General. The ground erupting. The gale. The choking waves of magic sweeping through his soul and body, and the long swim out to sea. "It turned out the Edge wanted to put me on a trial for something. I wasn't too keen on going, and besides, my brother had shown up out of nowhere, and I felt compelled to help him, after he helped me. And now.. now I'm just here."

He sounded tired, incredibly tired, even to his own ears—tired and confused, and he looked at her with a face that was something halfway between a frown and one 'brow raised in vague self-mockery. He knew he was more tarnished than ever, but was determined to, one day, crawl out of his goddamn hole once and for all. It was just a matter of figuring out which way was out.