The tent was suddenly a flurry of festivities, a rushing gale of joy and ebullience and exuberance, and he didn’t understand any of it.
 
The Reaper stood, lost in the shambles and the whirling tempest, as explanations were granted and hostilities were disassembled and the world took on such a bright, silly change. He watched as mares giggled, as his son rampaged and rushed away, as streaks of paints and symbols were exchanged in fond merriment, at a complete loss as to what to do or how to act. The tent was no longer a vital piece of secret, covert information or restless, cloak and dagger meetings, but an interloping of jovial pursuits launching from thread to thread, and all he could do was look on with a blank, stunned, stupefied look.
 
Was he supposed to participate? Witness? Stare? Stand silent amongst the crowd, just one more shadow on the horizon?
 
The only art he composed was death - archaic, sinister, and brutal. The only great, grand opus he ever orchestrated was one of vile, monstrous actions – menacing pulses, malevolent yearnings, the bestial, ferocious shades of war, mayhem, and abhorrence. But none was to be found here – even to the beast who thought he could stain the bizarre, merry affair.
 
The Lord was a stranger here, even amongst the rippling tides of his members – the ones he fought for, the ones he protected, every single day.
 
“Interesting,” was all he said, bewildered, confused, and perplexed, gazing at the maneuvering frames and the wild gestures of amiability and generosity.
 
He thought about leaving – motioning back into the dark enclaves, along the twisting, noxious corridors, along the folds of belligerent, savage beasts, because he wasn’t a part of the buoyant, lighthearted crowd. The demon was comfortable in his reign of terror, in his dominating, overwhelming hate; and this, this whole charade, left him awkward and restless, strained and frayed. The dusk was more inviting, the soulless, heartless chords of his emboldened lifestyle, of his audacious, cruel, criminal sentiments, alluring, beguiling, and enticing…
 
But then Hotaru touched him, and he nearly flinched in surprise. It stole him away from his rasping reverie, and his gaze followed hers, arching slowly, carefully, tilting his head in question, in query, towards her approach and intentions – but the motion didn’t drag on for long, and he was left with more uncertainty, more vague contortions.
 
So he lowered his maw to the collection of leaves, already dead, curled, and decrepit, dipped it in a berries’ blue hue, and removed himself from the tent, avoiding eyes and stares and imminent interest, following his son’s motions. The beast allowed himself a small smile, before towering over the lad and attempting to make the tiniest of raindrops towards the top of the fabric; as if one day they could cascade down or pool in a sunken sector.