In some intervals, he was nothing.
 
A king of pieces and broken, fragile flesh – living off of desolation, off of isolation, just a hair’s breadth away from disaster and ruin. Master of despair, of loneliness, of the forlorn interludes with naught in between but sunken marrow, disheveled frowns, and the missing fragments floating away, away, away. They scorned him, they laughed at him, they hissed and smirked and snickered the days away, and because he was too proud, too strong, too haughty to ask, he remained caught in the dissolution, in the absence, of memories, of what could have been, and what ought to be.
 
Sometimes he saw flickers of the ocean cast over his eyes, waves seeking, absolving, breaking over the slivers and splinters of his unrelenting soul, until he gave in and wished, prayed, dreamed. He’d watch it shatter moments later, when reality carved its way through his depraved, debauched soul, cast away the virtues he’d held, clasped, and clenched, leaving him only to wonder, only to beg in the stunning, wicked silence.
 
Sometimes he heard rain patter against the cave and stood, silent and vigil, awaiting the beginning or the end, standing outside the aperture and letting it douse him – soaked, besotted, drenched in something of hers. Ghosts played across his eyes and dazzled his senses, hallucinations and stars, chimeras and wraiths, and though he never kneeled to their glorious abyss, he permitted the game – because then, and only then, he could see them as he recalled. A lady of the sea dancing, a girl with snippets of darkness and light, with flowers in her hair, with blossoms following her wake; a siren song, dreamed and drowning him whole.
 
Sometimes they simply weren’t there, and he had to admit defeat. It cursed his soul and blackened his already mottled heart, tore at any melted bits and molded it back together in more nefarious arts. It became a shrouded, bestial soul, beating in tenderness for his son, for his mountains, and for his herd members amidst and wandering, and never anything else. He didn’t ask the gods to find his family. He didn’t follow the narrow trail they’d left behind. He waited and waited and waited, loved and hated, soulless, vacant, veiled and unholy, protecting himself from the inevitable inquiry.
 
What if they never come back?
 
The Reaper’s spine prickled against the midnight void; he nearly sneered in spite of his regal indifference, poised again for another excursion with no meaning and no end. The slate of his cruel eyes caught the fibers of the Threshold’s gate and wondered how his daggers had led him here, how his soul had been trapped, ensconced, and enfolded into the locked parlors and the hooded gazes – and may have gone entirely, back into his shell, back into his abyss, had an item not caught his eye.
 
A flower, tucked and nestled amidst the moss.
 
Ivory and delicate, whimsical and winsome; a spark of hope bounded through his frozen veins and he glanced onward, his pace frenetic and fervent, because it was spring and of course there would be blossoms, petals conspiring everywhere to delude him –
 
But there were more. Blue and lavender, rosy and green, powdered and speckled, making a trail, harboring secrets, divinity…
 
He followed them in a rapid, feral pace – matched ferocity with satanic reverie, carving Lucifer rapture in the denizen of their art, of their creation, only allowing one oath, one prayer to slip through his lips (let it be her), silent, inaudible, intangible. When his movement ceased, when familiarity reigned and drummed and sang, his daughter was within his stare: beautiful, incandescent, a picture of her mother, of him, of everything he’d strived for. There was someone else there, talking, waiting, but the beast didn’t care.
 
His attention, his devotion, was solely to her.
 
“Loth-" The Lord’s throat caught on a gnarled wish and a frayed dream, twigs snapped beneath his stride as he slowly inched closer, and wrapped his head around her neck. For a few, brief tender moments, he allowed himself the opportunity, the chance, to touch her again, to ensure she was alive, she was whole, she was well, she was real, before relinquishing her back into the fold. 

talk talk talk

  He was consumed, but not with hate, not with malice, not with contempt; only the most adhering of devotion and love, and it broke apart several of the icy walls fortifying his sinister, savage heart – beating a fine crescendo so it matched blossoms and singsong smiles. The Reaper forgot his indifferent mask and his nonchalant barbarity, his recherché reserve and stony fixtures, gazing down at the depths of his child’s existence and smiling, grinning, piecing together worn, torn columns and frameworks. His lips grazed over the crown of her head, pressed a kiss, a stroke, a caress, to the bits and pieces of forelock and parted mane, then along her cheek at the nestled tears, prying them away from view (tucking his behind his eyes, because they burrow at the back of his stare, burning and clawing) and only withdrew, stepped back, to gaze at her fully. Words, swirling as a tempest along his tongue and through the spring air, didn’t dare to break, but came together at the seams, illustrious, proud and strong. “I am glad to see you well.” He had so many more things to say, questions to unravel the void – but for once, he tried not to delve into ruin.
 
Her words were like a benediction, reverential and rapturing, and he knew he didn’t deserve them. Too many years spent in wars, in bloodshed, conjuring mutilation and maiming and massacres, could never lead to pure, elated happiness, but the present held steadfast and true, longings and yearnings turning into real, corporeal fragments. His daughter was there, alive, whole, and older (and a rancorous, bitter edge rasped against his throat – because he’d wanted to see her grow in wisdom, in age, in body and mind and spirit, and it’d been taken from him) – maybe that was all he could wish for.
 
But he wouldn’t be a devil’s sword or Lucifer’s pawn without a sense of indulgence, a whim of greed, a gleam of the avaricious. His stare, for mere seconds, glanced towards the dark, Stygian thicket, tracing and drawing over every direction, peering past the folds of leaves and the broad, encompassing boughs. His ears pricked in various accord, listening for the sound of falling rain or the slide of water against gravel, and he forced his mind, his sentiments, not to falter, not to flicker, into hopeful bouts, but they still pierced through the slate and marble, curling and coiling. Deimos leaned towards Loth’s ear, quiet and inaudible, so the boy nearby didn’t need to hear, so when she told him the rain girl wasn’t coming, the other wouldn’t, couldn’t, understand the ring of disappointment clouding over the Lord’s presence. “And your mother?”
 
His daughter wished thereafter, for home, for an empire, for a world filled with ice and strength – and he imagined her again, sprouting and spouting out silly little rhymes or singing against the backdrop of caverns and lakes, covering the whole realm with blossoms and petals. He would have let her do anything she wished as a girl, spoiled him rotten with her jubilee and elation, taught her the ways of war and the oaths of honor (and how blood could be spilt over little things, how effortless it was to exploit and unravel), and perhaps, he had the opportunity all over again. The beast, the monster, the father glanced towards Roux, another boy of D’art’s, and though intrigued, gratified by the request, could only refuse it. “Thank you Roux, but I must decline. I will escort both of you home.” Parting from her so quickly after just getting her back would be a lifetime of regrets – and he had little patience for any more repentance.