He’d given commands and demands for what seemed like a lifetime: to damn, to bludgeon, to ravage, to tear, to sneak, to steal, to gather, and they’d always been simple. In times of war he’d give into the same temptations and slink amongst the columns of treachery, in times of peace and repose he’d shackle himself to the mountain peaks and wonder what to do and how to be enough – but he’d never considered himself a beacon. He’d been a cretin, a fiend, a devil, for too long to even begin considering pointing his behemoths towards anything else but damnation, because that was where he was headed; the only path he knew and understood. The King had never pressed into their minds, into their schemes, to unravel what they truly desired, yearned, and craved, where their aspirations and ambitions lay, where their hearts curled and joined, tethered to other creatures and terrain. He’d been hollowed out and sculpted for indifference, nonchalance, and bitter, utter defiance against the world, and perhaps that was why he lost so many in the process of his erosion. They thought the Reaper didn’t care: about them, about their livelihoods, about their corroded souls or their compassionate denizens (but he did – he just didn’t know what to do about it, where to go, how to say it in words - his tongue was silent while his actions persuaded, divided, and conquered). So the monster’s smile faded while he was lost in deep thought, attempting to provide an answer to the dove who merely wanted to be pointed, oriented, to souls who required her aid. For those snippets, he thought anyone who looked to him as a guide must’ve been desperate – who asked a portion of Lucifer, of Mephistopheles, how to be and where to achieve? But then he recalled his father’s words, remembered that a Lord was something, someone to his subjects, not a sculpture of marble, not an eldritch contortion of stone, and his head fell further, eyes directed solely at her again. “Some in the Basin could benefit from kindness and honesty.” He didn’t give names or orders, he didn’t ask her what she thought of him, if he pervaded worthlessness or strength, if he was going to be another figure left on the pinnacles of desolation and isolation despite all his efforts, despite all his trials and tribulations (but he wanted to – the query just couldn’t make it past his lips, too familiar with secrets).
 
She smiled, grinned, when asked about her home, legends, and lore, and he watched in his grave, perilous silence, brooding, masking, hiding behind his demonic veneer. Deimos instantly longed for things he couldn’t ever have, not again, and wondered what songs would’ve been sung about Isilme. Would there have been a theme for Ignatius, all his embers, all his fire, all his lost infernos? Would there have been a leitmotif for Stone, for the unicorns’ tides, for the family he’d lost? Would his sister have reigned in a legendary sonnet? Would he have been left off the pages? “That is admirable,” was all he said at first, intrigued by her dam’s attempts at lore and myths. At least they’d tried to keep record and annals of the past – all he had were bittersweet memories and toxic indulgences, sweeping images of beaches and war, of a father fallen at the hands of another, of a heritage only known for its hate and vehemence (when it could’ve been so much more). Then he tilted his head, curiosity fumbling over his brow again, peeling back the layers and lacquer of iniquity, nearly boyish, what he may have looked like in misspent youth had he not been sent into the reaches of Hell, less the Reaper and more the King. His voice grew quiet and inquisitive, pondering over the likes of other worlds, other times, other places, trying again to connect in some way to those he protected and guarded. “May I hear one?”