He stared his most recent failure in the face.
 
The words and world spiraled against him all at once, a complex, woven art of facts and figures he hadn’t seen, despite all his calculations, despite all his machinations, despite every ounce he’d given to the land and what he believed he’d given to his herd. His guard was up, armor encrusted between layers of stoicism and apathy and nonchalance, woven over his bones so no one saw how deeply the art of desolation crept, the moment Ashamin spoke: I’m glad to see you. No one was ever glad to see him, the executioner, the scythe, The Reaper, nestled in his statuesque depravity; they always looked away or stared or shuddered, they always ignored or tore or stole. He said nothing as the painted Haruspex and the Queen embraced, an entanglement Deimos had never perceived, never known, never thought about because it’d been none of his concern or business, because he watched the world through war and famine and persecution instead of love and empathy. He understood nothing at all – his mind was a network of spider webs, intricate designs, plots meant to fold, methods meant to hurt, but he suddenly felt very lost, very adrift, out in the deep ocean or fumbling, bumbling, sinking between waves, incapable of comprehending the strange cultivation of loss brimming over their surface.
 
Leaving now, no fault of yours…
 
The phrases and syllables slipped together, devouring the inner columns of his nefarious soul, arching and defiant, sweeping and ridiculous. His first instinct, after everything aligned, after everything crossed over, was pure, utter rage – simmering and slinking along his marrow and intertwining through his heart, until all he could feel, all he could taste, was the desecration of their loss. Time and time again beasts left, fled, the confines of their home, of their mountains, of their promises and oaths and assurances, like it was so easy, like it meant nothing, even after they’d spent hours and days and seasons enduring the harsh snow and unrelenting savagery. They pledged dedication, then found something else, while he stayed, while he never strayed, while he basked in naught but snow and loyalty, when hardly anyone around him could understand what that damned word meant. The monster wanted to hurl bitterness and rancor through his chest, through his vocals, through his keen, blasted sword, so he wouldn’t have to face the irony of everything all over again – because no matter how hard he tried, nothing mattered. Even Ashamin, whom he’d thought would forever bask in the glory of the asinine Spark God, whom he’d thought would fuel fires in the Basin caverns for eons, saw how little the Lord mattered, saw how little the summits gleamed, saw the embers dying, flickering, withering amidst the midnight oil. Anger rolled along his teeth and tongue, but then he sighed, and it disappeared, like smoke, like fumes, against the frigid air.
 
It would always be his fault.
 
He remembered Ophelia – the vicious way they’d parted, the avaricious gleam of wrath, the contemptuous peeling of layers and failures and ineffectual nature – and he was too tired to go through all of it again.
 
The King’s penetrating gaze folded back and forth on the Queen’s swollen belly and Ashamin’s pleading refrain, as if he was to grant mercy from all this. He was the least forgiving, lenient, or gracious beast there – but perhaps he owed it to them, to the Haruspex, to the painted one he’d have to call a stranger – even when no one bestowed it upon him. “You will have our loyalty. Your skills were a great impact to this herd,” the notions lingered through his rough tones, and he waited for someone to run him through so he didn’t have to stay and watch his defects continue to pile up, one by one, until they consumed him whole. “They will not be forgotten.”