He was consumed, but not with hate, not with malice, not with contempt; only the most adhering of devotion and love, and it broke apart several of the icy walls fortifying his sinister, savage heart – beating a fine crescendo so it matched blossoms and singsong smiles. The Reaper forgot his indifferent mask and his nonchalant barbarity, his recherché reserve and stony fixtures, gazing down at the depths of his child’s existence and smiling, grinning, piecing together worn, torn columns and frameworks. His lips grazed over the crown of her head, pressed a kiss, a stroke, a caress, to the bits and pieces of forelock and parted mane, then along her cheek at the nestled tears, prying them away from view (tucking his behind his eyes, because they burrow at the back of his stare, burning and clawing) and only withdrew, stepped back, to gaze at her fully. Words, swirling as a tempest along his tongue and through the spring air, didn’t dare to break, but came together at the seams, illustrious, proud and strong. “I am glad to see you well.” He had so many more things to say, questions to unravel the void – but for once, he tried not to delve into ruin.
 
Her words were like a benediction, reverential and rapturing, and he knew he didn’t deserve them. Too many years spent in wars, in bloodshed, conjuring mutilation and maiming and massacres, could never lead to pure, elated happiness, but the present held steadfast and true, longings and yearnings turning into real, corporeal fragments. His daughter was there, alive, whole, and older (and a rancorous, bitter edge rasped against his throat – because he’d wanted to see her grow in wisdom, in age, in body and mind and spirit, and it’d been taken from him) – maybe that was all he could wish for.
 
But he wouldn’t be a devil’s sword or Lucifer’s pawn without a sense of indulgence, a whim of greed, a gleam of the avaricious. His stare, for mere seconds, glanced towards the dark, Stygian thicket, tracing and drawing over every direction, peering past the folds of leaves and the broad, encompassing boughs. His ears pricked in various accord, listening for the sound of falling rain or the slide of water against gravel, and he forced his mind, his sentiments, not to falter, not to flicker, into hopeful bouts, but they still pierced through the slate and marble, curling and coiling. Deimos leaned towards Loth’s ear, quiet and inaudible, so the boy nearby didn’t need to hear, so when she told him the rain girl wasn’t coming, the other wouldn’t, couldn’t, understand the ring of disappointment clouding over the Lord’s presence. “And your mother?”
 
His daughter wished thereafter, for home, for an empire, for a world filled with ice and strength – and he imagined her again, sprouting and spouting out silly little rhymes or singing against the backdrop of caverns and lakes, covering the whole realm with blossoms and petals. He would have let her do anything she wished as a girl, spoiled him rotten with her jubilee and elation, taught her the ways of war and the oaths of honor (and how blood could be spilt over little things, how effortless it was to exploit and unravel), and perhaps, he had the opportunity all over again. The beast, the monster, the father glanced towards Roux, another boy of D’art’s, and though intrigued, gratified by the request, could only refuse it. “Thank you Roux, but I must decline. I will escort both of you home.” Parting from her so quickly after just getting her back would be a lifetime of regrets – and he had little patience for any more repentance.