What could been triumphant, glorious, and unrelenting was suddenly driven into chaos. Unraveling edges and frayed ends, knots untied and thrown out to sea, out to ice, out to some other shelter he couldn’t see, couldn’t find. Normally, he anointed anarchy, smirked inwardly at its potential, at its outcries, at its absolute mayhem spiraling and convoluting and distorting every rapid measure, every laid out stone. He’d cherished and consecrated the unholy armaments of enmity and antagonism, fed them his raptures, his reveries, his dominating spirit. But to watch his herd unthread before his eyes was something else altogether (and the layers of frustration over the past few weeks built and built, crooned ire and murmured wrath) – and he was suddenly reminded of every weakness he ever possessed. If the Forsaken’s rapid, molten discourse hadn’t punctured and rasped at old wounds, Arah’s speech certainly did; rupturing over cold, nonchalant callouses, over the brick and mortar of immoral, soulless voids, clasping and clenching and smirking at the way the world had come to rest at his feet – dark, desolate, and forlorn. Standing amidst the center of his empire, he suddenly felt truly, deeply alone.

When he was young, that’s all he’d ever wanted. He’d yearned for a hole to crawl within and never come out. He coveted peace and salvation in the shadows. He chiseled his way through caves and catacombs, festering and feasting on the remnants of his life. He protected himself, he guarded others, by being away from his family, by being away from everything and everyone he may accidentally harm from the brutal, malicious, savage swing of his necromancy –

And now, he’d done it again, without ever meaning to.

He’d pushed Arah into a rage. He’d pushed Ulrik into a simmer. He’d pushed Thranduil into an all-consuming wrath. The Reaper had somehow, someway, managed to miss the social revelries, the puncturing whispers, the needy glances, until they erupted, until they exploded, into a sea of petulance and upheaval. His thoughts were a mile a minute, a swift keen of machinations and calculations he may have forgone for the sake of violence, for the hints of vehemence. Had Arah ever actually wanted to lead? How was he supposed to know that (was she some chosen being he’d needed to ask, gain permission from?)? Their world couldn’t grow strong? They were no longer feared? What were all these falsehoods? What was all this nonsense? His skin crawled, his mutinous frame grew taut, rigid, and the strokes of his finality pierced through the imbalance. No yelling, no screaming, no screeching or howling; the monster’s omens were a keen note of brevity, a harsh, punctual blade driven into the crowd. “Stop.”

The demon didn’t want to lose Arah. The monster didn’t want to lose Ulrik. The devil cherished the few loyalties he had, the few manifestations of trust he’d managed to procure, but they couldn’t carry on as brats and beasts, hooting and hollering with no justification but peevish entitlement. Something had to give, something had to wane, something had to be fostered and built out of all the nothings he was being left with.

And as much as he balked, as much as he strained, he had to grow. The Reaper had to admit the wrong too (but where was it – because he’d chosen Thranduil, because he hadn’t chosen her, or something else altogether, a notion he couldn’t understand?). His arrogance, his confidence, and his pride had taken too many hits in the past few days to do much else but listen, reflect, and act. But not with anger, not with vexation: they’d get nowhere, and he’d be the one deserted again. Before the couple retreated in their contempt, before the insults had time to wither and die within his chest, his voice ricocheted over the horizon, just as deadly, just as nefarious, just as commanding and demanding as his prior vocals, but with no necessity towards deafening bellows or bleating madness. Steel, resolve, and determination echoed in the chasms of his oath, of his declarations, in the narrowed, puncturing, piercing slate of his infernal stare. “We will discuss your opinions when you choose to act appropriately. I can meet with you when our gathering adjourns.”

His gaze swiftly churned towards the gilded, fellow King, and one overwhelming ache of monstrosity fueled and flared over his sinister emblem, over his chiseled, reticent features, so insouciance became fire and fury, an unholy, vicious whisper. “You will hold your tongue and cease acting like a child. You will listen to your brethren because they are all you have.” The infidel paused, stoking the rawness, the composure, he’d lost along the way – but it needed to be said, it needed to be defined. “If you cannot behave properly, you will not be able to lead this herd.” He leaned in closer, a rampant predator abiding sudden, instantaneous advice, carving a carnivore control, unleashing a torrent of warnings and foreboding. “You will be insulted. You will not be thanked for your roles, protection, or guidance. The world will turn just as quickly on you as they did. What will you choose: to mock, or flourish?” Deimos knew his decision, because the Basin was what made him, what sculpted him, what caused him to chase down enemies and bludgeon fools. He wouldn’t forget the way Arah’s screams blistered him, the way Ulrik’s potency immersed him in Machiavellian calculations and a searing, tidal wave of ruminations – but he didn’t know what would become of Thranduil, if he couldn’t overcome barbs, if he couldn’t overcome nestles and thorns.