Banshee sirens and maelstrom shrieks, turbulent torrents and screeching tirades bolstered and ignited; he immediately regretted his attempt at conversation. The golden femme became an inferno, triggered and kindled by malice, by menace, by a devotion and dedication that not many shared. She seemed intent upon dragging him into her inept corridors, where asp toxins, foolish inclinations, specious desires and ignorant claims rose, bursting, impudent, impulsive volcanoes, spewing ash and vitriol, but he paid no inclination to follow. No one had the power, the prowess, the ferocity or might to sway him into their emotions, into their sympathies, for he was mostly without either, he drank in apathy, enmity, and animosity – and her stories, her myths, her beliefs and creeds didn’t manage to slash or melt his frozen, nefarious heart. The opposite occurred and he altered into formidable steel, unreachable, unattainable, tainted and drenched amongst infernal expositions, a foul, callous gleam of statuesque domination. His features failed to flicker from their reticent haze, impassive, stoic, unmoved, unaffected, unconcerned by each layered fire flung upon his flesh, meant to scorch, meant to sin, meant to sear. Her embers only met unholy recherché, scintillating nonchalance, ravenous, imperious annihilation, poised to simmer and seethe in the unwinding bedlam of her distorted carnage. You feel no love for her? The rasp, the grate, the abrupt candor of his damnation slinked through feral, indignant lips, puncturing, lacerating, piercing and slashing. “No.” Very few had ever claimed his devotion, his benedictions, his convictions, and the former Lady never managed to acquire a snippet of his blackened sentiments; he’d wielded his sword at her demands, at her calls, at her requests, but never kneeled before her daggers, kissed her rings, admired her throne. Was one supposed to cherish their leader, hold their hands through every crisis, reward them for their efforts when it was the herd, the cadre, the brethren and patriots that deserved the chords of glory? “You cannot force others to feel the same.” Whether Psyche had inspired others was to her own credit and merit, but to beat the notion into oblivion against his ears wouldn’t justify a swing to her side, and he stood, resolute, adamant, determined, to not comply with the howling woman.

The more she berated, the less interested he became. Even as she spun her tale, the Reaper felt no proclivity to stay, listen, enticed or allured by her boiling rancor and derision. He didn’t treat her to his own narrative, nor care to delve further into all the chaotic frames of her prior lifestyle or childhood, and nearly scoffed when she raised Psyche back onto some viper pedestal, ignoring and forgoing Mauja’s involvement. Psyche had not given him purpose, he’d managed to find, discover and unravel the armaments, the sieges, the bloodshed, and munitions, satanic reveries, heathenous raptures, upon his own well before wandering into Helovia. By the time she’d finished, he’d ventured into ignoring her altogether, formulating Machiavellian machinations through his hedonistic skull. All the accusations, all the allegations, assertions, and incriminations thrown at his marbled state fell to the ground, withered and decayed, incapable of scarring a beast well aware of how the world had unfolded before his eyes. Her poison, her fangs, her bane were ineffectual dregs of toxins, fermenting and brewing into the hollowed void. All her fabrications, all her deceptions, fell upon a colossus of composure, of control. His mouth parted again, justifying the archaic reticence of his insurrection. “I have demanded nothing from you. Do not feed your venom with more lies.” The monster paused momentarily, fixated death into his savage lungs, into his brutal breath, until the unholy barbarity of his vocals strung between the two of them, sharp, caustic. “I followed her commands, I did my duties. Perhaps it is your mind that is narrowed.” He had no reason to defend his actions, for he’d accomplished no moral sin, no iniquity upon the viper-woman. Illynx, however, seemed intent on clambering upon the same venue over and over again, marching him down upon gallows and stringing him up by a taut noose, but he refused to play into her game, into her specious guile and vacuous schemes. Deimos declined, spurned, and dismissed the opportunity to waste the hours away speaking to a soul bent on ignorance and hand-spun disdain, to a harpy, to a fool insisting loyalty and devotion for a being already gone. He uttered one more cold, chilling reverberation, death and demise finished with the endless shrieks, wails and stupidity. “Concentrate on your own flaws.” Then he turned away from the gilded blade, sinuously stepping, slinking, slithering, ceasing to bend into the unreasonable terms of her dominating melancholy, longing, yearning, for the shadows to claim his taciturn flesh once more.