The Reaper had watched his son from a cavern, curious to see the antics he put on display given no chaperoning, no cajoling, nothing and no one to safeguard a foolish prince. His eyes narrowed as he gave another, unfamiliar and unrecognizable, a shortened version of a tour. The Lord presumed she’d be another addition, someone Erebos had plucked out of the Threshold or down in the valleys where he roamed, sincere and beaming, bright and brilliant like his mother, capable of assurances and cleverness to tether him to so many. He’d paid them no mind or heed as they wandered along the lake, bouncing and laughing, young and brazen, but as they grew closer to the Haruspex’s cave, his attention had shifted to his own branch and bramble of intrigue.
 
What would they be attempting in the grotto of the God?
 
He didn’t fear the deity, not entirely, but had always been apprehensive and wary of any meeting with the hands of Time. The being had always been surly, snappy, distasteful and loathing, a keen, blunt blade lacerating all of their skin. He half-expected to be electrocuted every instant their paths crossed, when they asked for information about monsters, when they tried to negotiate quests not yet completed. Despite his avoidance of any reverence, for the King had never truly prayed to any higher power (he knew his tenacity, his worth, his might, and didn’t need to compel or cry out for more), he understood and respected the notion that the God protected their sanction and sanctuary, their empire and sovereignty. As a warrior, as a blackguard, he could respect the omniscient presence and persistence of sparks and tick-tocks.
 
But he couldn’t have children wreaking havoc with the immortal.
 
Deimos proceeded slowly, precise and predatory, stalking their shadows as they smiled, laughed, winked, and then disturbed the dust, the quiet, of the chamber. Diligent and silent, quiet and deadly, he crossed over the aperture with a dangerous, deadly warning: his essence a poetic juncture of damnation and treachery. Erebos must have felt it first, jerking his head towards his father as the invocations wove through the threshold, uncanny, deadly, unfurling, uncoiling, at his obvious displeasure. His features broke from their nonchalance to arch his brow at his son, impassive tones chilling the chamber even further. His scolding vocals marched and toiled, soulless and disappointed with Erebos’ lack of prudence and rationale. “Not your wisest choice.” Thereafter, he pulled his necromantic chords back, away and away, permitting their plumes back into his Reaper figure, a living scythe, a breathing devil, before sliding his piercing gaze upon the young femme. While peering at her features, at her face, at her physique, he was struck by a force of recognition he hadn’t encountered in seasons, in years (not since her body was found, ruined and sullied by the Moon Goddess and Gaucho, a marionette to murder). Rather than show his surprise, his bewilderment (other than a slight widening of his narrowed eyes, like he’d seen a ghost brought back to life), the rattling inquiry was pulled from his throat, harpooned back upon her frame. “Who are you?”

  He knew that look. He knew that tone. He knew who’d carved, sculpted, and born the girl before she even uttered the name.
 
The shame was overwhelming, bound and broken, whittling and thorned, hastening immediately to his chest, to his mind, to his skull. It slinked and slid, like a burden, like a snake, like the asp Psyche always had been; reminding him of all his brutal failures, of all his ridiculous flaws, mishaps, and faults, those imperfections he’d made as a soldier, as a fool, forcing their way to his soul. It crawled, vicious and scathing, contorting and unraveling, burrowing him deeper into the throngs, the fury, the ferocity of his errors – a brilliant, searing hot condemnation meant solely for him. He’d been too silent, too quiet, too immersed in his own nonchalance, in anger, in wrath to have ever defended her as she cast aside her throne, her crown, her titles – and then too late when she was gone, dead, murdered, and massacred. Standing at her funeral pyre, paying tribute to her burning body, hadn’t been enough atonement; he was all too aware that there was no salvation, no mercy, no clemency granted to an avaricious king, to a sovereign of the north who wanted the best for his kingdom but hadn’t seen that she’d been the best. He’d carried the weight, the burden, the notion of his predacious slander across his shoulders, along his back, for years, seasons, and it felt like a lifetime, pulling and tying, tethering his noose tighter and tighter until it didn’t matter anymore, until it was all the same choking, smothering notion. The monster hadn’t been enough for her, for anyone, for anything in those icy shackles and chains, and to face her daughter now, imperfect and dastardly, wicked and damned, seethed worse than her mother’s cold, chilling wrath.
 
The Reaper almost dropped his head, bent his knee, and proffered his sword to the darker dame, to the daughter of their once illustrious Empress. Instead, his reticent, nonchalant gaze, so full of fury and contempt moments before, melted and molded into a quiet reverence; piercing eyes examining, studying, meticulously grasping at what used to be – days of illustrious moments strung together by viper tendencies and overflowing vehemence. Maybe she could be his salvation now, maybe he could make amends for all the rotten, wretched things he’d done – and it wouldn’t change him, wouldn’t alter him, wouldn’t ascend him to heaven (not when he was already consigned to Hell, already Hades locked in his fiery crypt, sealed away without Persephone) – but he could give something back to Psyche, an opportunity he’d never granted her when she was alive. So, his voice shuddered, shook, quaked, and quivered, head lowered so he could stare at her fully, so they were sword to sword, and he see Psyche spitting at him between her eyes. He swallowed away the bile winding along his vocals, charring away at him, bit by bit, and at last he was only shards of gravel and disaster. “I am Deimos, Lord of the Basin, former General to Psyche.” Then he paused, as if the mere statement opened up all of his transgressions, all of his sins, before rendering his gaze solely upon the girl, and the girl alone. “What do you wish to know?”

  The acrimonious anchor was hauled away, and in its place was the soulless soldier who’d wandered from the shadows of Isilme into the fog of the World’s Edge, sails sleek and refined in surrender. He’d once stolen across fringes and edges, as if he’d been born to it, as if he’d been measured and found barbaric, twisted, and annihilated enough for the vehement disciples of Mauja and his legions; promising death and desecration, glory and abominations; and he’d been right all along. He watched her demand beneath the cloak of her mother’s ashes, and he gave in readily to her, wondering if the thorns, the virtues, of redemption were ever allowed to flow into his veins, or if it was all too little, too late – forced to wander more and more halls on the pathway to Hell, without Huyana, without rain, without sun. The beast’s features were cast away into their fine stone and rubble, like marble tarnished in inky textures, one of Lucifer’s finest masterpieces brought to wreckage and ruin – where he’d always been destined to falter, to skid, to crawl. The Lord’s eyes briefly wandered to his son’s, so much like his mother’s that his heart clenched and his jaw tightened, nodding as the boy threw him a lifeline, where to start, where to begin. The depths of his stare swindled to the girl all over again, her expectant ardency, the glowering tribulations, the bitterness, the rancor, she must have held for him because of what he’d done. It was odd, to even think that he cared what she thought, for he’d always been lacquered into indifference, into nonchalance, into cold-hearted reticence – it was easier when the earth died beneath one’s feet to simply cease bothering with anyone and anything. But this error had gone on for too long, this mercurial mauling, this indignity and iniquity was a sin he’d never enjoyed; he’d taken its throne, its crown, but they’d never formed to his skull, to his figure, properly. The King had been born into too much devastation to ever rule without imperfection – and it had started from the moment the title passed to his name. “We started at the World’s Edge, where Mauja reigned,” he began, coaxing the memories back to the forefront, curled and coiled between his curt speech and his roughened vocals, pressing to the youth as his eyes failed to leave hers.
 
“Weeks after I joined, we were invaded by an Outcast group called the Qian, led by Mirage. They were allied with the Dragon’s Throat.” The history crawled through his membrane, and he could remember the sights, the sounds, the glory, the triumph, of the battlefield, hastening to his chest, to his soul, to every ounce of nefarious demon beckoning inside his predacious decadence. “We fought, but we were outnumbered. We lost the herd, and became Outcasts.” His brow furrowed, just a slight hint of the disappointment, of the defeat, that still haunted him every time he roamed close and within the misty depths; as if there’d been a moment where they could have turned the tide. “I did not know your mother well then, but she and several others took us into the Frostbreath Steppe, where we lived as refugees.” He negated words of the Plague; that had been a defining moment worth celebrating in the company of those who still hated, still believed, and it was so far gone, so past its prime, that he didn’t give praise to its group. Psyche’s true furtive coils would remain a secret. “Psyche inspired us to fight back. There, we plotted and schemed, scavenged and pillaged. We stole from other herds. We irritated the masses.” It had been something worth living for, in those feral, spiteful moments, where all they’d wanted to do was bludgeon and annihilate, find satisfaction and contentment in knowing they could conquer something.
 
He could still recall when Psyche had seen his capabilities, when she’d peered at the white Pegasus Queen, Svetlana, and in the measures of silence he’d known the quiet, unholy depths of praise.
 
Had anyone looked at him that way since?
 
Deimos paused then, glanced off towards the horizon, where the mountains rose, where the valleys fell, where there group of fallen comrades and begrudging brethren had come together, altered, changed for the better. “Eventually, the Time God thought to reward us with land. Your mother led us here, to the Aurora Basin.”
 
And that was only the beginning.

   He waited again, a portion of the mountain, a piece of mortal flesh woven into death threads and quietus notes, as she listened, as she took in the genesis of their actions. The beast wasn’t sure to expect anymore – she seemed to tolerate it all, take the notions and information in stride, and the tense bridge he’d built around his throat loosened, presuming her noose would come in time to strangle his meaningless endeavors and pursuits. History had unfolded in such cycles and patterns, series and sequences, seasons cavorting and entangling with demonic intervals and persistent waves; vengeance would be sought year after year, for one reason or another. Before the monster could grant her the next chapter, however, she sparked, sizzled, over a particular line – perhaps proud, glad, to hear of her mother’s involvement and plotting with the god of their realm. “Yes,” he granted in his solemn reverie, in answering anything she asked of him, in passing one legend to another; shaping and shifting, sculpting and refining, the last bits and pieces he could hold together. “She did.” However much more than that, he couldn’t say – he only ventured to speak to their deity in times of trouble, trial, or tribulation, or amidst the clamor of a Haruspex. Did she want to know the celestial being too, and all his rancor, all his defiance, all those chords of power? The Reaper’s eyes glanced along his son, because the boy had started that tide of curiosity, had allowed it to flow, and the Lord could understand it, could comprehend the notion of seeking out omniscient creatures and cretins, immortals who could stand and wallow, puncture and devastate – but he’d seen others of their ilk fall too, down in the valleys of the newfound lands. They’d been bones, skeletons, lifeless just like the rest of the mere peasants, and he wondered if any God should be revered, if they could be so easily torn apart. He’d let them decide where they stood amongst the stars, the heavens, and hell – if either child would fixate their loyalty to one element or beast, if they would bow their heads to sparks, to flames, to darkness, or to the earth.
 
The girl’s next query snapped him out of his ruminations, and he peered at her again, staring at the set of Psyche wiles and inquiries, brow forming a slight arch as he rumbled over the lacquer of his response. It’d been a similar question he’d asked himself in the days that followed – in between the bitter, acrid taste of blood on his tongue and wounds stitching back together – if they could have succeeded without the Throat’s interference. “It is difficult to say,” he finally surmised, nodded, because they’d been a collection of brambles, of thorns, of experienced and green alike, thrown together by the loyalty of skies, seas, and cliffs, a cloak of mist dappled across their skin, a fog boiling along their schemes and ambitions. “Some had never battled before. Some had seen many wars.” His voice paused in its chiseling grain, plucking over the seams of the caves, memories clogged and clouded over, back in the moments of bloodshed and fury, where the dais of battle drummed like a familiar song, ghoulish and gruesome, maddening and reverential. “And some were lost.” The weight of his gaze went back to her, away from the rush, from the peak, of restless spirits and demons, infidels, not thought of in a millennia (the beast of Mauja’s, he could remember now, devoted, like a dog). Deimos’s vocals reigned again, fire and ash, embers and soot, cinders and darkness, tilting his head, affording and proffering her the next direction. “Would you like to hear more?”

   The Lord of the Basin had always been a fool. While talented in battle, while regarded skillful in the art of war, of death, of massacres, he’d never truly been a guiding hand – he was built like a sword, like a blade, rampaging and streamlined for pernicious action and caustic deliverance. He was no storyteller, no historian, but a piece of what their lives had been, slowly eroding, rusting, fading out to the deliberate hands of fate and fortune. He struggled against it, balking, resisting, snarling, slithering, attempting to defy each and every step of the way – but the girl made him realize all over again that he’d made far too many mistakes to not end up paying for them again. The shame rattled his core, and he wondered how many bits he’d have to describe, how many times he’d have to open his mouth to reveal their weaknesses, to unravel the foundation of their strength, to have another witness to his flaws, his misdeeds, his inability to become anything but might and Lucifer intricacies. “Thereafter, the herds took turns antagonizing one another.” It was a phrase hiding much of the disaster and ruin, the pain and torment, the paranoia and treachery; it’d been trying times, and he’d been a mere soldier, a bestial General, stalking the grounds, the shadows, until he too was caught up in the chains and tethers of lives assaulted and sieged. “We stole and were stolen. Your mother was once taken to the Throat. I was once snagged by the Edge. Mirage was claimed by one of ours.” The shame caught in his throat, barbed along his roots, his features, until he turned away so no one would see the bitterness, the rancor, the discomfort brimming over his normal nonchalance. “But Psyche had always been clever. She managed to flee the Throat and returned to her post. She ensured my freedom by giving Mirage hers.” Lord, had he won his challenge, had he been able to scrape and claw his way out of the cliffs, out of the sea-breeze and the chilling mist, the DarkEmpress wouldn’t have had to play the only hand they’d been dealt; and he wondered, very briefly, in the back of his immoral mind, if she believed it’d been worth it – to take the Reaper out of the fog’s fetters and irons. He’d never asked her. The answer would’ve likely been too humbling.
 
“There were very few seasons where we were not at one another’s throats.” Here, he knew, was where the folly would begin again, because he’d lived a life of decadence and sedition, of insurrection and absolute Machiavellian tendencies, been a pillager, been a survivor, been a piece of war and a scabbard of irreverence. Sjal would grind her ax through his neck next, and he’d be left to quietly descend back into Hell, where he belonged. “Eventually, there was a time when the Edge and Throat began to target the children of the Basin. We fought them off as best we could, but two were still pilfered.” His eyes narrowed, and that penetrating, piercing shade of blackheart vehemence corroded their edges, bled darkness and ruin, defined chaos and annihilation, where his pride had erred and his anger had compounded into such malevolent coils. “We tried to design a two-front war. Allied with the Foothills, we intended to send portions of our herd to the Edge and the Throat and combat them at the same time.” The action had had its merits – the dunes wouldn’t have been able to send their comrades and brethren to the mist and the woods. “But we lost again.” His head didn’t bow, his gaze didn’t falter, and he stared directly at the girl as the rest of the void tumbled about their icy plain. “Your mother was defeated, and her horn was severed.” Perhaps the child wouldn’t understand the weight of such a travesty – the blow of such a proud, racist Queen. Her sword had been everything they’d ever aspired to, because it was a symbol of their power, of their supremacy, of their hate, of their trust. “Ulrik the Engineer could not stand her loss, and ordered her to relinquish her throne. She gave it to him, and then disappeared.” The beast could’ve ceased here, could’ve allowed the story to play itself out without his guilt, without his remorse, without his rue and regret, but the daughter of Psyche deserved to know just how much he repented those moments. “I was there to witness it, but I did nothing.” His voice was solemn and grave, but that stare was still on her, watching and waiting for her scythe to lash against his. His loyalty to the Basin had never been in doubt, had never been in question. But he should’ve said something for the femme who’d led them all there, for the asp who’d allowed them all to slither and slink through the darkness. “A few days after, Ulrik gave the crown to me.”
 
Then Deimos paused, taking in the quiet, the history, the ghosts and specters gathered behind his eyes. There was only a little more to come, but it seemed the heaviest. “I did not see Psyche again until her death. She passed at the hands of the Moon Goddess and her puppet.” She’d been given honor by Mauja’s funeral pyre, and by the rage unsettled and unleashed between all of them – all fighting, all distorted, and he could imagine that her banshee phantom must have laughed, grinned, smirked, and snickered at their lot, one last chaotic shamble before she was consigned to oblivion. “There had been rumors of her appearance while the wraiths wreaked havoc seasons before. One of our healers had tended to her.” He breathed, the silvern slate of a living weapon, scattered to the stones and rendered weak, fettered, because he’d had to relive all the mistakes and blunders they’d made.
 
“I do not know what else you wish to hear,” he started again, nearly exhausted by the long knives and stories, jaw feeling tattered and broken by the amount of words he’d granted. “But I want you to understand, that without Psyche, the Basin would have been nothing.”