There were clockwork patterns whittled and sculpted, carved and sketched, over mountainous foundations and rocky caverns; he was nearly certain. They repeated in the same way, scattering proclaimed loyalists to seas and tides, to valleys and clearings, to groves and catacombs, branching and falling away from the icy pinnacles, from the rime peaks, from the glacial expanse that had welcomed them with open, demonic arms. He never quite understood the call – he’d never heard the siren wails against his ears, he’d never heard the haunting, poignant reach of another world heralding his name. He’d always stayed until he couldn’t anymore. The Reaper had been from Isilme, and it had shattered, became mired in shadow, so he resumed his soldier prowess into the Edge, and when they lost, when they were forced away from their cliffs and fog, mist and secrets, he lived like a refugee with the rest of their voided hearts. Once they had the Basin though, he planted his roots, he fixated his stone, he tarnished his rubble and ruin only for the desecration of snow and northern expansion, breathing in the frigid air and becoming part of winter itself, a maneuvering Hades never chasing after Persephone (even when she journeyed on without him, even when he’d felt her love and wanted more, and she never turned back to beseech him again). The monster stayed because it was home, because it was shelter, because it was sanctuary from everything and everyone – it was desolation and comfort, isolation and beauty, danger and treachery lanced and laced through every corridor – it was him and what he wanted to be, what he craved, what he desired. And sometimes, deep in the remorseless marrow of his soul, it hurt when others couldn’t see, couldn’t feel, couldn’t believe what he envisioned, what dazzled his sights every morning, every evening, every nocturnal splendor, every twilight vision, every ghoulish, violent thought.
 
The King had believed Rhiannon was another piece of the regal, wild, untamed expanse, born within its frosted raptures and merciless reveries. But she left, like so many others, coiling and curling this way and that, so when she disappeared, he didn’t know what they’d lacked or what he’d yearned for outside their remorseless realm. She uttered the same oaths and convictions, then fled them, just as quickly as she’d spoken their promises and pledges; so he wondered if they were meaningless, if they were broken, fragile things, if they were weak and feeble, so easily uttered and then found, collapsed, beside the rest of fallen affirmations. He’d even asked to avoid the anger, the bitterness, the rancor settling in his chest (because he’d given her chances, far more than some, and she still evaporated through the pines, fir, and snow, as if his granted invocations lacked meaning too), to understand why and how and where they always seemed to go beyond the walls and chambers of a empire he cherished. But her simple utterance, her blatant disregard and dismissal (away), caused his gaze to narrow, dangerous and bestial. There were a few frigid moments where all he did was breathe, consume the air around him, draw and swallow composure so he didn’t become even more of a monster, even more of a demon.
 
Then, he listened. She spoke again, words suddenly pouring, chasms suddenly widened, her gaze suddenly locked with his, and he couldn’t comprehend the puzzle she was showing. “What demons are these?” How could she, a femme he’d always presumed full of strength, full of tenacity, full of her father’s poison and her mother’s bravado, could be devoured by more fiends, by more cretins? They were all devils, poised for the slaughter, prosed and posed for upheaval – but to know she was plagued by one of her own…the echoes of his treacherous slate softened, head tilted, curiosity brimming and brewing as she continued, as she laid out her grievances, as she proclaimed him Lord, the only thing left for her.
 
He didn’t know what to say – except he knew he was unworthy.
 
The words spilled from his mouth without forethought, brewing below the surface, where his blackened heart had cracked and still beat a crescendo from time to time. “You have always had my mercy. Others have not been so lucky.” She had - he’d bestowed it to her over and over again, because she’d been a part of something grander once, something died off and extinct (those days where hatred was allowed, where contempt for others was expected), because he thought themselves very similar. How many more was he supposed to allow? Deimos wasn’t regaled for his leniency or compassion – very little of it even managed to form a nuance, a synapse, in his mind – he hadn’t been given a title of death and damnation because he was renowned for his charity. But he wanted her there, amidst the blood and bile, amidst the bones and tombs, amidst the rattle of supremacy and domination that still lingered, rested, there. The notion churned through his skull, pulled and skimmed over the surface of his features, restless and conniving, bemused and frustrated. His brows furrowed for an instant, a rare change in complexion, so she could see the pit and pendulum of his ties. “But you need to show me why I should grant it again.”
 
Then, a final set of vocals, the only blessing he had to give. “The Basin is your home. Cease fleeing from it.”