On rare occasions, he wandered. The King slipped from his throne, pretended he’d lost his crown, and slid beneath the Sentinels’ empty gaze, seeking out obliteration and carnivorous decadence elsewhere; beyond the protective thicket of his own rooted desolation. The seclusion of his northern abode perfectly suited his disastrous wares, his tyrannical indulgences, but every now and again, he was spurred into action in another venue, comprising his chieftain motions, his savage indulgences, his nefarious, heinous movements to routes not well known, to paths barely taken. Once, he’d been driven from his home, down into the Endless Blue, on the taste of fire and the burning of ash, deep, deep into the grooves of his black, black heart – and he’d thought it was his family, coming to serenade him into death and desecration. In other moments, he’d traversed between caves of embers and stone, where they’d all hid for a time because it was the only way they could’ve been safe – and saw his father, great, bold, bitter Ignatius, a ghost, a legend, telling him how to become a great monarch, a better beast than himself (and he wondered every day if he’d ever fulfilled that vow, if his sire looked down upon him and shook his head, sneered, or smirked, snickered with pride or with disaster).  Some days he’d assisted in besting villains or monsters, demons who thought they were gods until they fell apart in the wreckage, in the ruin, the grand, barbaric plunge of Helovian daggers and knives, as the world turned upon them, as the realms fought for something they never understood. Other portions had passed in diplomacy, gone shockingly well, not festering on fringes of hate, not withering as other leaders stared into the eyes of the bestial, northern monarch and glimpsed into debauchery, sin, and iniquity.
 
There was no purpose to today’s roaming except to stretch his muscles, his skin, his coiled, undulating form – rumbling and rampaging past stones and secrets, down mountain slopes and ferocious, gnarled pathways. The Reaper drifted between murky fog and seething mist (remembered the Edge, looked towards its direction as if it had spouted and sprouted between the folds of yesteryear, still truly to far away to see its veneer of glass and cliffs, the toil of the surf, the gnarled, crashing bout of waves; wondered why he was so haunted by it now, when he could’ve had it again), then split the heavens with his sword as the clouds departed, lifted back up to a place he’d never reach. The mountains toiled behind him, steady and sleek, passionate and dark, beautiful and treacherous – but before his figure was the endless slate of fields, rumored to be from Elysium, departed from glorious hallelujahs he’d never sung, from reverent raptured he’d never want to hear. He chose nowhere in particular, slinking through grass, through verdant blades, through canvases and tapestries of green, winding his way amidst its lacquered layers, a mighty, dominant figure who looked as though he belonged, ruled, and reigned, but knew he never could.

  Cold, quiet, and treacherous, the King presided as a shadow amongst the fields of thistle and thorns for what felt like ages, watching the skyline, the horizon, blinking, staring, studying the land as a whole. He thought about how to grasp it all in his claws, he thought about how to resign to ruins and runes, and he thought about the immersion, the yearning, the quick, sullen silence of his pernicious indulgences – how easily, how swiftly, or how chaotically he could throw the whole world apart. There were stretches of time where he yearned for naught but silence and isolation, and then ran from it, afraid, frightened of becoming that dark, useless speck of the Basin who cowered from duty, who shirked his force into nothing, mattering little to anyone or anything. Ages before, the reticent void, the nonchalant vessel, wouldn’t have cared if the rest of the realm ever glanced at him again, if he’d tucked away into a cavern and hid away from eternity, if he could’ve blasted a hole straight down into hell and been consumed by its flickering flames. Now – all the machinations, all the savagery, all the abhorrence seemed wholly reserved for icy chambers and chilling, licentious devotion to a kingdom coursing through his blood (not one of water, where the tides rested and combed at his sprigs for mane, at his young, gangly legs, at his silly nuances, and charitable calls to family and friends), and he didn’t know which sentiment to lay his head against. So he didn’t, and the monstrous brutality wreaked and clawed, coerced and dissolved; always akin to devilish insurrection, to barbaric whims, to terrible, irreverent disasters stoked by his skin, by his tongue, by his movements and motions. His eyes merely took to the trees, to the moss, to the brush piled, dead, at his feet, ears flicking back and forth, back and forth, betraying the notion that he was more than a statue, more than an obelisk; mortal, immoral, and dangerous.
 
The sounds of another hastened his skull to twist towards the noise, and the piercing slate of his cruel, heathen stare took in the pale femme approaching; recognizing her form from the recent meeting, but anything else was nonexistent. She was one of his, a flock of his sheep, and he, the savage shepherd, hissing and howling in front of them, beside them, behind them, defending them from anyone and anything (then watching them flee, run, hide, because he was more frightening than the threats lurking beyond their walls). The maiden must’ve taken pity on him, known he wouldn’t have comprehended what to call her, how to address her, with a voice made from softened taffeta or frayed lace – too nice (and he never knew what to do with nice things). Apprehension curled against his spine at the sheer notion that he’d disappoint her in some way, in some notion, wouldn’t be anything she wished or warranted on this day – far too cruel, too miserable, too sunken into the earth and shadow. What was he supposed to do? To say? Zyanya was made of gentle minuets and bowing sentiments, and he wondered how she intended to survive in the halls of the Basin, how she would thrive, how she would conquer the wailing wolves inside their sovereign, let alone the ones crawling outside their borders. His brow arched, breaking apart the seams of his impassive structure, curiosity gaining the upper hand, the pondering, the scrutiny, layering and lacquering to his mind; a Machiavellian hallowed, hollowed shell, always calculating from a distance. “You are welcome.” For what, he couldn’t be certain, but the deepened, curt glide of his vocals proffered it to her all the same. The Reaper struggled again, moments after, incapable of figuring out what else to bestow in the discourse. These instances were for Hotaru, who could fill any space with careful conversation, for Huyana, who’d been kind and forgiving and understood every arch and lilt to his silence – not the clueless Lord, who would sooner put a sword through someone’s chest than spout more than two meaningless sentences. But he tried, the ridiculous soul, he tried because some part understood, comprehended, what it meant to be a good King, even when he struggled to find the means to achieve it. “Do you enjoy the Basin?”

  She was all nerves against his steel, his reserve, his callous, unfeeling shell – and beneath it, he understood the way her words shook and rattled, why they pulsed along the blistering depths of his mind, because they’d been lodged in his skull too. It’d always been monstrous – to not be enough when his shoulders ached and his sides hurt, when his skin had been torn, flayed open, when his sides were stitched together by Menders’ shifts in time or herbs, when his Machiavellian persistence was always occupied with the next threat, the next warning, the next brutal, bitter omen to set himself upon. Sometimes he’d stared upon the mass, gathered at his beck and call despite their longing to be anywhere else, and wondered why they even came to him, why they even listened to the brief words he had to say. Because he was Lord, or for some other reason: terror, apprehension, fright? Did he inspire anyone or anything to stand along the threshold of the cold, harsh winters, beside him, as he plunged his hellish roots into their frozen soil? Did he instigate pride in their mountainous castles? Did he inspire and incense duty, honor, and responsibility? Or did they merely preside along the grounds because they presumed he’d catch and annihilate them if they failed to uphold their place? Would there be a day when he failed them so utterly, so wickedly, that they’d battle against death, strip him of his life, listen to his last, withering breath, and laugh when he wasted away, become a skeleton, a pile of bones, on the outstretched, desolate shrine of glaciers and treachery? The King’s eyes shrouded, narrowed, looked beyond the fields to where the summits peeked over the horizon, tall and formidable, brazen and glorious, everything they should’ve been, and he sensed the rancor claw at him again – ever the failure. “I frequently feel the same,” he said into the wind, answering her in kind, presuming one figure, out of all of them, should know and understand that sometimes, no matter who they were, no matter what place they held, they felt just as inadequate. One day he was a force, a menace, a beast striking against the heavens, and the next, he could stumble, weak and weary, and fall upon the ice – be nothing and no one, naught but a secondhand story spun by ancient, demonic tongues.
 
Everyone else was quite incredible, in their own ways. He could admit that, alone, by himself, tossed together with the bits of ash and soot rumbling and simmering where his heart used to be. He admired Johnny, the whimsical Weaver, who could spout joy and nonsense into every moment, even though the winter King always shied away from it, incapable of extending it any further. He respected all the healers, who managed to tend to every nick and scrape, the soldiers (fiends after his own decrepit, nefarious soul), the spies with their cloaks and daggers, even Albrecht, who usually only managed to disrupt everything he worked upon, had some value to their cause (somewhere, he was certain). He wasn’t incredible though – just another demon slithering his way from oblivion, striving to protect, to condemn, and to destroy. The only thing that altered him from others was the deadly art of demise poised between his blood, swimming through his veins, ensuring he’d always be kept away, far, far away, wrapped up in isolation and detachment. But his brow arched, curious, by her admittance, by the way she strived to make something of herself (and it was to be commended, for how many had bothered, for many had wanted to even be anything for their world?). The beast had seen many capable, hardy workers, and he’d seen lazy, inept, entitled fools, but he wouldn’t place her in the latter. His head tilted, proffering a quiet, studied perusal, presuming she wouldn’t be among the warriors, yearning to cut away flesh and bone from her enemies. She might have been summoned into furtive wares, perceived her gentleness as a strong suit, as a means to dive into specious worlds. But he asked instead, a hushed reverence of talents and abilities – they were to be honored, treasured, utilized for the growth of the realm. “What skills do you possess?”

  He half-expected her to run, as most often did. They made their excuses, and parted ways with his daunting shadows, with his harsh gaze, with his callous disregard, with his inability to take part in meaningless discourse. Eventually, they drifted away too, disappearing in more than just spirit, but in body, steered away from the ice and ravines, and he wondered where he’d failed them. Was it because they thought he didn’t care? That he didn’t see them for what they were? Or did his silence, his power, not speak volumes to them: how he made the earth move for their desires, for their might, their distinction, how he’d fought and burned and tore apart cretins and monsters to save them? His most earnest, heart-felt proclamations had always been the quietest: when he extended his blackened, bruised, nefarious, ugly heart to Huyana, when he chased after his children, when he stood at the top of the mountains and breathed in the chilling air, promised to the wind, to the summits, to the peaks and valleys to guard its ancient soil until he was nothing but bare bones and idle memories. The Reaper didn’t anticipate her moving closer (because few had ever wanted to, much less actually maneuver their frame towards his), and he watched, beneath his feral brow, along his heartless gaze, pondering if he should be the one to flee instead. Maybe she judged more harshly than the rest of them, as sometimes gentle souls harbored a lot more than virtue, and she was ready to strike the final blow, send him down into the eldritch reaches of hell, where he belonged, destined to pillage and blunder his way through the afterlife.
 
His brow arched again as she smiled.
 
Had the King done something right and decent? He hadn’t erred? The beast had half a notion to look around, below him, to see if the ground fizzled, crackled, opening up to swallow him whole; because it almost felt like she’d accepted him for his honesty, for the brutal munitions layered and lacquered to his form. Perhaps she was relieved that he was weak and she was strong, that he could fumble and stumble, that he could be stripped away just as easily as the rest of them; but she seemed relaxed, poised, calm, and composed. The length of his winter stature remained frozen, confused, perplexed, incapable of solving the riddle laid out for him, unwilling to ask if he’d become less in her eyes or better (for he always wanted to be more for them, but didn’t know how to say it, how to state it, how to do anything act and defy). So, he stayed in the same position, marked and scorched to the realm, a piece of ruin the Devil liked to leave behind and watch, waiting for Zyanya to offer her talents.
 
Deimos almost laughed – cracked a bare, minimal smile – when she began to coil them into the air. I am always kind; and he wasn’t. Some days he spent seeking out moments to bludgeon the world, unravel it into bits and pieces of chaos to satisfy his ravenous mind, his ruthless denizens. And always honest; perhaps an absolution he could contort, but only when his Machiavellian pursuits deemed it appropriate and necessary. The demonic infidel nodded though, out of respect for her truths, for her abilities, which few seemed to share. “There are many who have need of such qualities.” He tried to figure out where and how all of these attributes would fit into the Basin, why her compassion would seek out such a perilous kingdom, but he was distracted, fettered back into haunting, poignant thoughts, when she mentioned singing of a realm now lost.
 
He wished someone knew how to sing of Isilme, the unwavering waves, the long, winding beaches of sand and sun, the blinding hate, the avaricious pull from one species to the next. He wished someone else knew of his family (beyond the stories and myths he’d already passed down), like his father, the bright, burning Ignatius, and his mother, the brave, hardened Stone, his sister and his brothers, combing the dunes for their own chance at glory. The monster thought about asking her how many sovereigns she’d seen destroyed, if she’d passed through one riddled with shadow, if she’d seen a blue femme swimming through the ocean or a girl with flowers pressed into her hair; but it all seemed too much to bear across his tongue. He fumbled with more queries pressed to his mouth instead, until his stare focused on hers and curiosity tumbled through his lips. “Was it your home?”

   He’d given commands and demands for what seemed like a lifetime: to damn, to bludgeon, to ravage, to tear, to sneak, to steal, to gather, and they’d always been simple. In times of war he’d give into the same temptations and slink amongst the columns of treachery, in times of peace and repose he’d shackle himself to the mountain peaks and wonder what to do and how to be enough – but he’d never considered himself a beacon. He’d been a cretin, a fiend, a devil, for too long to even begin considering pointing his behemoths towards anything else but damnation, because that was where he was headed; the only path he knew and understood. The King had never pressed into their minds, into their schemes, to unravel what they truly desired, yearned, and craved, where their aspirations and ambitions lay, where their hearts curled and joined, tethered to other creatures and terrain. He’d been hollowed out and sculpted for indifference, nonchalance, and bitter, utter defiance against the world, and perhaps that was why he lost so many in the process of his erosion. They thought the Reaper didn’t care: about them, about their livelihoods, about their corroded souls or their compassionate denizens (but he did – he just didn’t know what to do about it, where to go, how to say it in words - his tongue was silent while his actions persuaded, divided, and conquered). So the monster’s smile faded while he was lost in deep thought, attempting to provide an answer to the dove who merely wanted to be pointed, oriented, to souls who required her aid. For those snippets, he thought anyone who looked to him as a guide must’ve been desperate – who asked a portion of Lucifer, of Mephistopheles, how to be and where to achieve? But then he recalled his father’s words, remembered that a Lord was something, someone to his subjects, not a sculpture of marble, not an eldritch contortion of stone, and his head fell further, eyes directed solely at her again. “Some in the Basin could benefit from kindness and honesty.” He didn’t give names or orders, he didn’t ask her what she thought of him, if he pervaded worthlessness or strength, if he was going to be another figure left on the pinnacles of desolation and isolation despite all his efforts, despite all his trials and tribulations (but he wanted to – the query just couldn’t make it past his lips, too familiar with secrets).
 
She smiled, grinned, when asked about her home, legends, and lore, and he watched in his grave, perilous silence, brooding, masking, hiding behind his demonic veneer. Deimos instantly longed for things he couldn’t ever have, not again, and wondered what songs would’ve been sung about Isilme. Would there have been a theme for Ignatius, all his embers, all his fire, all his lost infernos? Would there have been a leitmotif for Stone, for the unicorns’ tides, for the family he’d lost? Would his sister have reigned in a legendary sonnet? Would he have been left off the pages? “That is admirable,” was all he said at first, intrigued by her dam’s attempts at lore and myths. At least they’d tried to keep record and annals of the past – all he had were bittersweet memories and toxic indulgences, sweeping images of beaches and war, of a father fallen at the hands of another, of a heritage only known for its hate and vehemence (when it could’ve been so much more). Then he tilted his head, curiosity fumbling over his brow again, peeling back the layers and lacquer of iniquity, nearly boyish, what he may have looked like in misspent youth had he not been sent into the reaches of Hell, less the Reaper and more the King. His voice grew quiet and inquisitive, pondering over the likes of other worlds, other times, other places, trying again to connect in some way to those he protected and guarded. “May I hear one?”

    At first, glancing at her features, he thought he’d asked too much. The beast had always been one of demands – he expected strength, abomination, and irreverence from himself, and so, always interpreted others capable of the same. The possibility that he’d done it again, forced his way into brambles and thorns, and waited for another to follow him into open flame, into ancient warfare, into blood and hollowed, primal iniquity, gave the cretin pause. But only a few moments later, she gave into his inquiry, and his ears became rapt vessels, swinging like pendulums on the center of a molten skull, a fiendish crown, attempting to grasp what other worlds had been like, where Zyanya had come from, how empires could rise and fall (because he’d seen it before, over and over again, and he had to know if those endless patterns were eternal to other realms too). The language was unknown to him however, foreign, unfamiliar, drenched in melodies his mind couldn’t contemplate or embrace, but he listened anyway, puzzling over the complexities of other times and places, of heroes (something he’d never been, something he could never be). She translated the ballad, and he nodded, unsure, uncertain, of what to say. For a snippet he wanted to ask what happened to the monster, if it was sent into oblivion, if it was consigned to hell, and where the hero went thereafter. Did they fall apart too, later on, as their realms and castles changed, as axis’ tilted and immoralities collided? He understood that champions were revered and devils were feared (and a portion of his throat swallowed down the inquiry if he was considered anything other than a fiend, if he’d be remembered for something beyond the scope of his magic or the cold, raw, nonchalance of his exterior), but he wanted the aftermath, the legend after the rising of a tempest and the restoration of a people (and perhaps it would give him the slightest bit of hope that it could happen again). “So Seren was saved?” The beast thought of Isilme again, beyond salvation, consumed by shadows, by darkness, by threats and threads, locked in a constant, consuming veil of darkness and indignation; a palisade fallen and never to return.
 
An idea prompted him next, a response to her prior inquiries, brow arching almost shyly, as if the presumption was too out of line, was too untoward. “Perhaps you might come up with a ballad for the Basin.” The cool depth of his eyes searched hers, shoulders almost conceiving a shrug, fixated on giving her a path, on setting her down strands and trails not battered and lined with brambles and thorns. “We have ample history.” The last statement almost caused a bitter laugh, a trace of rancor, a hint of humor, at the way they’d erred, at they way they’d faltered, at the way their determination laced almost nothing but failure. There’d been other times too, not so long ago, when they’d been on the top of the world, casting their noses at the weak, at the inept. Now they were just alike, fallen from their wintry grace.