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.”