She didn’t know, she admits; her face says that she thinks this new information is less pleasant than some of the other things she’s been told. I think that “death touch” is a pretty awesome power, and have often reveled in what it would be like to be so powerful, that a mere touch of your body to theirs, could strip a heart of its beating. Of course, I’ve also never thought that this means he can’t participate in things that I take for granted, like nipping at a friends shoulder, or wrapping your neck around someone when either of you need it. I don’t think that, maybe, that’s why he’s so quiet and aloof, because I like to think that he’s just tougher than anyone else, believing, even now, that his solitary nature was evidence of that.

Hell, I’d even tried to shape some of myself around Uncle Deimos. While mother hadn’t liked him, I think she still respected him, in ways, and father had certainly counted the Reaper among his friends. Erebos and Lothiriel certainly loved him, and Erebos had told me even more tales of who he was than my parents had; of course, they were only the tales that Erebos had been told, the nice ones, not the ones involving the numerous wars and violent altercations that the Reaper’s life had led him on. It had colored both my blade brother and I’s vision of the man so that he was, as far as mortal men could be concerned, as close to the goal of True Knight as we could get.

Of course, I’ve also lost almost all sight of that goal, in all the ways Erebos has held fast to it.

In all my thoughts the conversation slips away, and all words that bring to mind the ebony Lord of the Basin fall away for less cheerful memories. I’m glad when the conversation wades itself into less bloodstained waters, discovering that, the more often I replay what I saw in those battles against the keepers of the Rift, the more horror I can recall. I can hear Erebos’ air be pushed out his lungs as I drive my horn towards a crocodile, that same tail I’d sought to puncture sweeping his legs and body clear across a glistening world. I hear the screams, the shouts, the crackle and roar of magic wildly cast at beings that could, potentially, will each of us into nonexistence (though surely our Gods had at least protected us from that). I hear their weeping, and the low sounds of the dying.

War is always horrible, I decide here and now. It is not the way to solve anything, unless you really hate life and happiness, and even I’m not that much of a jerk.

Her bright voice is a distraction, my gaze meeting again with hers to find that she seems genuinely interested. I’m more than happy to oblige, loving any opportunity to talk about myself, and my somewhat unusual arrangement of abilities. I certainly have never seen or heard of anything similar to it at all.

"They’re not very nice," I say with a wicked smile, a smile that alludes to how very rotten inside I can be if one starts pulling away the succulent skins I’ve wrapped myself in, "mostly involving taking the ability to think for yourself away. I believe they are all from the Spark, as His… energy is evident as I draw on them."

It’s an energy I’m familiar with; I’ve met the God three times, and on all occasions, I took my time to get to know as much as I could about him. What I knew was that he cared little for your feelings, the sort of fellow to be direct with his intention and words, and that he was vastly, overwhelmingly powerful. Even after having stood in the presence of the Moon, who was beautiful, desirous, and full of a dark mystery, and their brother the Sun, a true warrior of the world, none of them compared to the magnanimous crackling aura which perforated the air about the Master of Time.

"The first time I met Him I was very small, and I asked to be someone else," I say, the impish smile turning into one that is nostalgic, that remembers a time before when the world had been new, and rich; a time when my sister still travelled with me, before she’d become someone out of my reach. The thought that I might be overly possessive of her, that I am actively denying her the right to be her own person because it is not who I’d have her be, evades me still. It is difficult to unlearn the lessons which ingrain my childhood: that Aithniel, no matter how much I love her, is an object, a tool to be honed and used, because she could serve my people just as well as a corpse. "I think the magic I wound up with might just be His version of a joke. In ways, I get to be whoever, however briefly."

Duir has continued watching, his tail spinning from time to time when one of my words rouses his excitement around the subject of magic, occasionally looking over at Remy to make sure the polecat is catching all this. They’re talking about Gods, and magic! The cerndyr cannot help but be greatly intrigued by discussions of the Creators, and while he certainly wishes they were talking about whoever made the trees (and not who gave them what power or what it was), beggars can’t be choosers. Stooping down ever so slightly as if to invite Remy to perch along his shoulders for a ride, the buck only waits so long before playfully bounding back over to us with loud crashes through the brush, hoping to hear better by being closer; he nearly collides with me upon his return, which earns him a glance that sparkles, momentarily, at how wonderfully new and foolish the buck is.

When I look back at Rexanna (who is looking at the canopy, her gold jewelry glittering in the dappled light), she asks me a peculiar question. Fireworks? I know both of those words, but don’t know what they mean together. I guess this is probably how people feel when father or I start going on about electrical connections and lasers, or if I was to tell her that her brain is really just a collection of wires and buttons that fire on some unknown code of laws, a code I feel like I can break in the few moments I am one with its humming machinery.

"I don’t think so," I answer, because I may have, not knowing what they are, and I’m certainly about to; she’s likely going to show me, as I assume that whatever Fireworks are, she can do it. I could elaborate and ask if they are what my brain immediately pictures – a blazing fire shaping metals and stone, it’s work - but it’s probably not right, and I’m not good at feeling stupid.

I don’t like it. It makes my expression somewhat perturbed to have been made to feel the fool for once, and I remember Själ making a similar scowl.

No wonder no one likes me, if I make people feel like this all the time.