Flames poured into life, death flickered and flared into sentience, ash and soot and embers coiled and curled into one massive, lingering frame: one he’d always cherished, one he’d always remembered, one he’d always craved. He watched, eyes widened, stony mask tossed and forgotten, gaping and staring as his sire, torched and scorched and gone from his life so many seasons ago, returned in a violent, vehement volcano. Not entirely whole, not entirely the beast set upon the moonlit tides, but enough to reflect, enough to rejoice, enough to love. The son, with his enamored silence, with his muted, entranced form, absorbed and studied and examined, tried to piece together the how, the why, the ways in which the Firesword had returned, until the fathoms were too much, and he took to just gazing again. There were so many things to say, so many words he itched and clambered for, so many assurances and hopes and aspirations fueled by desire to reach his father, incensed by the failures of long ago, contorted and contained by the oaths, by the assurances, by the creeds Ignatius had taught him while they stole across sands, while they feasted on hate, while they balanced and nestled on familial pursuits. But all that tumbled from his gaping mouth were quiet, boyish whispers, captured and bottled, seized and possessed, a scion bowing before his predecessor, a child’s heart beating in wonder and inspiration. “I have missed you.” The Reaper took careful steps forward, not striving to touch, to embrace, to hold (because what if the necromancy sought betrayal, and aimed to annihilate all over again?), but to bask in the glow of his parent’s might, of his protection, of his guidance, of his wisdom and power and everything else in between – just to remain, chiseled in the warmth, the fire, of ages lost and cretins slain.

He may have done just that; staring, gaping, reflecting with only silence and reverence to attend him, had Ignatius’ pride not filled to confines of the heated, infernal wake, had rancorous, tainted bitterness not flooded his mind, had shame not pulsed into a swift, aching, assault, fused and formed into molten crescendo of wrath and contempt. Frustration mired his contentment, bore his heavy crown downwards, so he yielded, surrendered, submitted to the speech of his sire, but couldn’t believe its transcription. His voice, harsh and scalding, met the ashen ground, pulsed and pervaded against righteous tomes and brooding calamities. “I am not.”

The monster wasn’t sure what his father saw, for all he could proclaim was existence, wars, and shadows: he hadn’t grown, he hadn’t stretched, he hadn’t poured every assurance into his kingdom. No fine king – perhaps a calculating one, maybe a silent one, but never fine. There was naught tied to his rule but threads of contemplation and tenacity, plunging after infidels rushing into his home, stabbing webs of deceit, unleashing torrents of anger, but he couldn’t claim anything else. What had he done for his herd? What had he done for the world? Irritating bobs of virtue still existed. Vile beasts like Confutatis still prevailed and survived. If he didn’t reign, the Basin would still be the same, locked and guarded amongst time, snow, and labyrinths.

But in those nuances, in those sentiments, in those melancholy voids, he wondered, he pondered, he raised his head and contemplated fire and brimstone, phoenixes and resurrection, through the flicker, the boldness, the strength, of his father’s glowing eyes. How were fine lords made? How were towering kings created? How did someone transform into beasts of legend, instead of monoliths of marble, instead of silent ramparts, instead of quiet gallows? Would he be great if he consumed the world, the lands, the empires before him – snatched and conquered and clutched everything and everyone for his winter lands? Would he be great if he inspired loyalty, oaths, promises, and assurances for the Siberian wake? Would he be great if he ensured their survival, their persistence, their existence, day after day, night after night? Deimos agonized, and then craved for the answers he sought, deliberated, yearned, longed, and fed it towards one of the few who could ever provide it: the grandest monarch he’d ever known. “How do I become one?”