The meeting passed by and promises were made, but they’d have to play a waiting game to see what truly surfaced from cretins, from fiends, from devils and convictions. He’d seen too many disappearing faces, too many evaporated facets, too many beasts turned away from the mountains, launching out into another world when their roles were too consuming, or their lives too mangled – but some motion, notion, of faith still chiseled its way into his iron-clad, nefarious heart. A portion of him would always be sculpted by the infinite traces of snow and ice, blood frozen over and rooted into the unmoving, tundra soil, as unattainable, as unreachable, as the pinnacles themselves, too bestowed and shrouded, consecrated, anointed, in death and depravity. So he stayed there, tied and tethered to the shadows, to the unfreezing lake, to the molten, heathen, dying throngs of their prior shouts, grimaces, and proclamations, wondering if they’d be empty beacons, false benedictions, or if someone would rise from the litter and ruins – he’d tried too many times before to have the strength to do it again.
 
His son, however, had been an intriguing surprise.
 
Erebos had always lingered on his own path – sometimes askew and foolish, running down trails no one had bothered to maintain, no one had yearned to cross, but still bright, ebullient, like a vibrant piece of his mother left to linger on the earth. Deimos had never pressed him into roles or venues, had never questioned his antics, because at least the boy had been allowed a childhood, been free to roam, been free to explore, been free to reign in whatever facet he craved – and he’d watched him grow from a buoyant lad to a blossoming soldier, but didn’t understand what had caused him to sway from the glories of liberation to the trappings of rank. Loyalties had caught Deimos before he’d ever had the chance to escape them – and he’d melded, molded into crowns and blades because he’d longed for blood and desecration, and when it’d faded away, he was left with a title, a throne, that he still didn’t quite understand or deserve. But the little prince – what was his standing? Why had he chosen to kneel before them, when all he could’ve had was freedom, sweet, illustrious freedom, to conquer and condemn the world?
 
The boy still remained, staring out over the lake, looking every bit as contemplative as Huyana would’ve been, gazing into storms and showers, reflective, pensive, and the monster allowed himself the briefest chuckle at his scion’s expense. “Sometimes you amaze me.” He even spared the child a wink, one of fatherly affection, rarely granted to anyone or anything else. “What brought this on?”