The abrupt transformation from the wiling, gilded fox, like a scavenger suddenly baring its wares, its abilities, almost made the Reaper laugh. He’d caught the predator in its own trap, somehow, someway, and while the notion was diverting, the ultimate reason behind it was what amused him all the more. Thranduil did not drop his mask frequently; he usually deigned to dance and prance his way around a masquerade, filling the void with mercurial temperament and annoying, grandiose gestures. But here, now, the beast had narrowed his eyes, drawn into speculation, into almost a quiet, unsung fury, and the King of the North studied him in turn, pondering over the brewing enigma. The Laurelin was not known for being rattled (he preferred his games, sneaking and cavorting), though Deimos had seen it for himself during the herd meeting, when the fiend had exploded in defense of his own character – and presently, something else had unhinged him, carved off the visor, veil, and disguise. While the monster hadn’t deliberately provoked the other, Thranduil was leaving himself wide-open, unguarded, tempestuous and spiraling, a creature cast aside by something undetermined.
 
The King’s machinations seared, scorched, and burned, etching and sketching over the fine, unspoken lines, the inaudible distinctions, and the notable distaste. Hotaru played a role – which didn’t surprise him, truthfully, because they’d all ruled and reigned together once; she’d always appeared to be an integral part between the pair of them when either hackles were raised or a crisis needed averting. They’d even been dual thieves, hiding in their cloaks and daggers, in their furtive, speculative traces, rooting away at secrets and taciturn encounters. He’d always presumed they were neutral, not distinct one way or another with each other, celebrating or boasting over latest triumphs without ill ease or immoral depths – perhaps he’d erred. Maybe there were more, entrenched, reticent notions he’d failed to notice, soulless, devoted scars shared between brethren.
 
He’d asked her about them once – when she’d shown up to another gathering, bearing nothing but blood and no answers, telling him he’d know later, trying to appease him from the protective, blackguard acrimony twisting in his soul, from annihilating the branches, brambles, and nettles of whatever had fallen to her. But the moment had passed by, he hadn’t queried her again, and she’d never been forthcoming. He’d allowed her another secret just as she permitted his. Is this what irritated the golden one – because somehow, someway, he wasn’t being given or granted the credit he was due? Deimos’ eyes narrowed again, scrutinizing and lacerating, deciding on which manner to attend to. He had an inclination to remind Thranduil that the world was never going to bestow or award him every emblem of service, every notable charity, every kind act he concocted – beasts were selfish, avaricious things, prone to forgetting who or what sheltered and protected them, expecting shields, armor, and sanctuary. Instead, he brandished the truth, intent on seeing the bestial outcome. “No,” his cold indulgences rattled, his nonchalant veneer wove. “Nothing at all.”