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?”