Indomitable, unassailable, and unbending, he’d spent years slowly eroding. Desolation and isolation forged almighty fixtures and insouciant strokes deep into the canals of darkness, casting away his faith, his creed, for the guile and edge of violence. His hate, his abhorrence, his wrath had been markers of Lucifer’s reach, a weapon’s subtle emotions; alluring, beguiling, and unwinding the mortal coils of nefariousness, of wickedness. Changes were minute and minimal: the brush of rain unsettling his coat, the strange, unexplained attachment to fellow, loyal comrades, the beginning of his family, a christened girl and then an anointed boy, and the inkling of a smile dusting away the cobwebs of his lips. Lacquered by cruelty and ruthlessness, layered by bloodshed, by violence, by vehemence, had crooned and sculpted him into a devil’s keen, grating opus – but it didn’t provide him with a way to enhance his herd, to provide for his fellow cretins, to abide by the terms of political reins. Days spent amongst the eerie eaves of fog and mist had honed a familiar bounty of indifference and nonchalance, a menacing veil of apathy; and as the seasons waned and whistled, screeched and tore, he’d steadily risen from one of the slithering soldiers harpooned from the Edge, to one more beast carving his throne into the ice of the Aurora Basin. But the Reaper, for all his determination, for all his resolution, for all his power and will and domination, knew he’d failed. He was all too aware of his lack of serpent powers or the tongue for diplomacy, had grown too eager and ready for the fray instead of peace and prosperity, but continued reaching and scouring and searching for an opportunity where he didn’t leave his herd wanting. He’d worn out the shadowy corridors, he’d sculpted trails and pathways down into reticent lures, and now, he had to somehow bear the notion of foreign affairs again and again (for their safety, for their lives), because he was only one beast, one monster, one cretin – and while he could throw himself in front of them all, even his protection, his enchantments, his brutal, callous invocations, had their limits. He would not be their weakness.
 
They stood in the hollowed, haunted folds of the Edge in murky, diligent silence – his narrowed eyes ghosted over the poignant alleys of a world he once guarded – a first home since Isilme, reminding him of those tender barbs of youth and the wild, avaricious crack of the ocean. There was a short, tugging pull on his heart, like a lure, like a thorn, of the realm they’d lost – but he barely reflected on it, forgoing the pain and agony and longing settled upon them in the days after their fall, pulsing and hating and menacing the icy chambers of the Steppe. Instead, his ears twitched and turned, picking out the finite details of a sovereign lost to him so long ago, connecting the unknown patterns and pondering over what, who, would come from the ancient, archaic whims; but the most significant sound reaching him had been a voice chronicling the depths of his past. His skull shifted immediately to the light, penetrating vocals of Mauja, and suddenly, everything seemed right. He released a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, he shifted his entire body to the fragments of ivory and spots, he nearly laughed at the absurdity of it all: shifting thrones, lost souls, forgotten kingdoms, and the ironic turn of events that had somehow led the Frostheart back to where he’d always belonged.
 
He bowed then, a rapier tucked into its scabbard, forgoing all the tension in his frame for a familiar, blunt chord of tenacity and boldness, raising his cranium to reveal the smallest, the softest, of smiles crossing over his mouth. Even the notion of his vocals were not as rigid, not as harsh, not as bitter and rancorous, leaping over the tides of the glassy borders for a piece of what had once been.  “Mauja – you are King again?” Deimos did naught else but stare for a few more seconds, taking in the ways the earth had altered and changed them; he’d seen the spotted foil amongst kin and country, but not since Psyche’s death and burial had they even been close to one another, old souls bonded and tied and tethered to dust and ruin. He showed no apprehension, no ill regard, as the ivory maw came towards his own darkened jaws, extending it with an ease that hadn’t existed seasons before, and pulling away before the touch, the stroke, became a deadly ware.
 
The winter Lord bit back a laugh, a chuckle, and extended the greetings towards his son and compatriot, trying not to forget what they’d wandered here for, why they were nestled and knotted back into a fold of the unknown.  “We come from the Basin for discussions and potential armistice,” but the depths of his eyes told the other frosty stallion the pull of camaraderie was an enticement; to revere and stand in the echo of old friends and new shadows,  “and bring gifts for your land.” He paused briefly, a sense of pride building over the sharpened coils of his chest, placing introductions and formalities within the depths of his still lingering grin.  “This is my son, Erebos, and one of our Time Menders, Enna.” Then he turned back towards his former monarch, absorbed and trapped in the Edge’s spell again.