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?”