Smoke and fire and vitriol; her acrimony and petulance was unappealing at best. He listened to her flares, to her molten venom, to all the mania and withering decibels in between, wondered who should be more offended – the brethren she was leaving behind, the remnants of her tempest, or himself. Everything was so tilted, so odd, so skewed, that he was simply the nonchalant, emotionless beast again, the void between storms and anarchies, the hollowed, hallowed portion of monstrous heathens and unsettling cretins. At what point had he made her his opponent all over again? Because he refused to adhere to her guidance? Because he wanted to do something, anything, without her involvement? Because he should’ve been capable, because he was more than a sullen soldier or savage castaway? Because he was so sick and tired of his herd being abandoned time and time and time again to the maelstroms, to the anecdotes, to the flailing missions of its predecessors? To those who seemed to drop it out of the sky, who forgot the glacial peaks, the minarets, the summits, the illustrious, dangerous, treacherous, intrepid wiles? What had she expected? For him to reach out for her, for him to beg her to stay? The moments were incredulous, disbelieving, unwinding and unfurling in ridiculous measures and tones, and he stood, stock-still, a marble statue to the altering affects of the dubious zeal. He ignored her dagger swings, her deepening cuts, her loathsome words (but deep down, something penetrated, and he knew it when his chiseled, nefarious heart ached at the thought that he’d never been quite enough for a herd, for a land, that he cherished beyond reason, that maybe she had done everything and he’d been a mere piece of slate, a brutal sword in chains, awaiting fights, and wars, like a mysterious titan with no name, no future). He settled into the dust and oblivion, scraped away the enamel of wrath and indignation, and pulsed with his chilling wake, with his vicious ardor, with his vehement, ferocious immorality, pondering how he’d become the provocateur when he was not the sovereign renouncing their post, tossing their crown, throwing their throne. Eventually, the Reaper spoke, but to the amount it held, to the use it built, to the necessity it strived, he wasn’t sure – he could be talking into the wind, never heard, never grasped, never held, but likely the only time he’d ever pursue the words coiled and brewing across his tongue. “You are not an enemy.” What vengeance did she need to seek? What had they done to her? He was too perplexed, too befuddled, too confused by the flow of ineptitude, by the shattering of skylines, that he didn’t rankle the edges any further. It’d been done, solidified, and rendered into distant forms quickly, rapidly, swiftly; everything undone, pooled and collected at his feet – and he hadn’t a clue what to do with any of it.

He took the first step to proving his mettle beyond just the battlefield, just the dais of war: the Reaper’s narrowed eyes focused on her ivory frame as it eventually flickered out of the horizon, nodding swiftly to the approaching Thranduil, to the desperate Hotaru. In all of this mess, in all of these follies, the demonic infidel knew he could do right by the two: they’d demonstrated their prowess, they’d manifested their tactics, they’d professed wiles and used them to extreme advantages (plucking armor, ensuing wars, provoking and needling and bending the frames of pinnacles and warlords). Thieves and impersonators, roses and gold, masques and plagues, all winding, all curled, all extended before him; due to be consecrated. They could be what the Basin truly needed, to fill the hole Ophelia had left, to lift and lift and lift the Basin higher and higher until it became more than beasts of an alliance, more than a flicker of triumph, more than a taste of conquest. Maybe he’d never told them about their worth, about their feats, about their strength, and now he could provide the duo with what they truly deserved. The living scythe searched for ways, for social cues, for methods to embark on the ceremonial pursuits, but in the end, it was always blunt, always curt, always only what was absolutely necessary. He spoke towards the horizon first, the faraway fields that once held a Forsaken beast and now conjured only the rise of more bestial flames (phoenix bellows, distorted and corrupted, deep in the corners of his chest), giving information to what they likely already knew and understood. “Ophelia has left the Basin for personal reasons.” He swung his skull, with all its majestic cruelty, with all its poised reticence, with all its bestowed licentiousness, and proffered a fair legion of pride to reach past his brow, along his eyes – for them, for the new crowns he thrust towards their waiting frames, for the polished scepters and the gleaming machinations and the avaricious toils waiting in the wings. Ophelia may have made them great – but maybe, they could be even grander, even wiser, even more imposing. With each of their skills, with each of their potency, there would be reason to fear the north. “Would you two join me in leading this kingdom?” No grand ceremony, no rising pomp and circumstance, but an appeal to crooked agents and rebellious hearts. He wouldn’t balk at this alteration, at this molding – and coveted, for singular, specious moments, that they wouldn’t either.