The meeting passed by and promises were made, but they’d have to play a waiting game to see what truly surfaced from cretins, from fiends, from devils and convictions. He’d seen too many disappearing faces, too many evaporated facets, too many beasts turned away from the mountains, launching out into another world when their roles were too consuming, or their lives too mangled – but some motion, notion, of faith still chiseled its way into his iron-clad, nefarious heart. A portion of him would always be sculpted by the infinite traces of snow and ice, blood frozen over and rooted into the unmoving, tundra soil, as unattainable, as unreachable, as the pinnacles themselves, too bestowed and shrouded, consecrated, anointed, in death and depravity. So he stayed there, tied and tethered to the shadows, to the unfreezing lake, to the molten, heathen, dying throngs of their prior shouts, grimaces, and proclamations, wondering if they’d be empty beacons, false benedictions, or if someone would rise from the litter and ruins – he’d tried too many times before to have the strength to do it again.
 
His son, however, had been an intriguing surprise.
 
Erebos had always lingered on his own path – sometimes askew and foolish, running down trails no one had bothered to maintain, no one had yearned to cross, but still bright, ebullient, like a vibrant piece of his mother left to linger on the earth. Deimos had never pressed him into roles or venues, had never questioned his antics, because at least the boy had been allowed a childhood, been free to roam, been free to explore, been free to reign in whatever facet he craved – and he’d watched him grow from a buoyant lad to a blossoming soldier, but didn’t understand what had caused him to sway from the glories of liberation to the trappings of rank. Loyalties had caught Deimos before he’d ever had the chance to escape them – and he’d melded, molded into crowns and blades because he’d longed for blood and desecration, and when it’d faded away, he was left with a title, a throne, that he still didn’t quite understand or deserve. But the little prince – what was his standing? Why had he chosen to kneel before them, when all he could’ve had was freedom, sweet, illustrious freedom, to conquer and condemn the world?
 
The boy still remained, staring out over the lake, looking every bit as contemplative as Huyana would’ve been, gazing into storms and showers, reflective, pensive, and the monster allowed himself the briefest chuckle at his scion’s expense. “Sometimes you amaze me.” He even spared the child a wink, one of fatherly affection, rarely granted to anyone or anything else. “What brought this on?”

  “Do any of us know what we should do?” The King quirked a brow at his son, lordly and proud, pondering over the antics of his youngest and the brutal honesty tugging at his lungs, at his vocals, at his stance. He followed his son’s sight, to the unfreezing pool, to the skies, to the horizon, and felt every bit as small and insignificant again. He’d never truly comprehend or understand if he’d left any measure of impact on the mountains, on the landscapes, on the caverns, on the course of destruction, power, and mayhem, or if it had faded from him so long ago and he was too blind to see it was gone, disappeared, and evaporated, never enough. “So we simply try.” His vocals carried against, then along the waves, contemplations of the truth from experience, from the days where he’d been utterly inept at politics, striving to damage instead of maintain (and he nearly wished he could just go back to those days where everything seemed so utterly uncomplicated and effortless – sliding his blade into an enemy’s frame, whispering death and breathing disaster, condemnation, consigning himself to oblivion and watching the world fall apart beneath his feet). “When I was General, there were far more of us, and we were hungry for devastation.” They’d conspired, they’d pledged, they’d strived to unite for annihilation and disaster, and it’d been a beautiful thing when everything had aligned, and ridiculous when it’d fell apart. They could have been so much more, and perhaps, when Erebos strived, they’d find the niche again – he had the compassion, the charisma, and the ability to connect with others that the Reaper would never be able to utilize. What did they hunger for now? What did they yearn, what did they crave? Where were the adversaries to pitch over the sides of the cliffs? Maybe they’d been mired by peace and repose. Maybe they’d never had a prayer the moment alliances and armistices had been proposed. But his voice reigned again, supreme and warm for the advice his son wanted, assured, confident, every portion of the composed summit and peaks. “You can rebuild. You can recruit. You can train those willing to fight, to patrol, and to undermine an enemy’s abilities.” He’d stumble, but they all did, they all had. He’d rise too, because he was made of strength and vigor, determination and perseverance, and even on the darkest of days, the prince was a beacon of bright, unwavering prowess and fortitude. The sovereign smiled again, moved closer to press his maw against the boy’s forehead, a lingering touch for only the slightest of seconds (too much would signal death, even when all he wanted to do was embrace the only piece of family he had left). “I have faith in you. Have some in yourself.”

  All the layers, all the lacquer, all the glories, couldn’t pierce through the affection he held for his son, and he would’ve liked to have stood there with him forever, staring out along the icy valleys, the rimed, frosty eaves, dreaming of what the Basin could be instead of reminiscing over what they once had. The monster’s stare drifted from the dark bits of Erebos’ forelock to the horizon, ignoring the petulant ache in his bones, the wasting fatigue drowning and weighing over his shoulders – and he listened too, both infidels great attendants and studies, capable of finding faults and flaws, or traits and abilities, talents locked away until they were beckoned, shown the right path. The boy would try, he’d always been willing, chasing down the light, the virtues, the veritable unknown like it was a trusted ally; and Deimos had no doubt about the presumption. The final one, however, he could easily slice through – the Reaper had not been the best candidate for any position other than heathen, devil, and demolition, and most days he missed simply being able to bludgeon an enemy into submission, chasing down intruders, annihilating foes, slashing a fellow demon who’d been too treacherous, too devious, too threatening. His moments as Lord had been sparked and incensed by power, by supremacy, and by failure, and in some seasons they seemed to intertwine into just a mess. He didn’t deserve the credit his lad anointed him, but valued the loyalty regardless, arching a brow and snorting, touching the boy’s blue shoulder, already marked, scarred, hardened from the pursuit of battle. Maybe they’d match one day – all lined and pocked and disfigured from protecting what they valued the most, rendering them as trophies instead of places they might’ve succumbed. He gave him a gentle nudge, shaking his head, all truth and sentiment without the bitterness, without the rancor, without the rough edges of the cruelty he’d harbored – before turning to leave on the line of shadows and somberness, leaving the boy to his own unfolding story. “No. You will be better.”