who we are and all that we're trying to be
The widening eyes were a reflection, surprise, but notice, distinction of those he’d spent marauding and destroying. Reaper came out – and he waited for it, the anvil to plummet, the ax to fall, the grinding motions of yesteryear’s triumphs and conquests defeated, diminished, because blood had been spilled upon this one’s land. Perhaps he’d cut apart a family member, a monster of the multitude, of the many who’d dared to embark where they weren’t wanted, who’d tried to defy his home’s ministrations, or who’d strived to go against the Basin’s war-mongering grain. But there was naught insulting or paralyzing, condemning or condescending, a slide of abhorrence sticking between syllables and lines – titles that had no benefit to this land except something he carried on his shoulders throughout worlds. No fear registered, not a semblance of treachery or danger, not a sensation of wrath or indication of vengeance. Bewilderment struck him further as his hand was taken, introductions pulsed and simplistic, not a bite, not a drawing of blades, not a blade suddenly stuck between his ribs. It was acceptance again, and he still had difficulty understanding it. "Well met," he offered, when he could think of nothing else.
Why?
The stranger’s name remained that way no longer. The calling, distinct, sublime, heralded from the Dragon’s Throat, because it had been the lair and threshold of the Golden Prince, and the Reaper could finally come face to face with someone good and kind and revered; granted his honorifics because of his esteemed prowess. Where Deimos had sunken into his embellished scythe with a keen oath to upheaval and demolition, scattering souls and prospering only the mountains’ existence, Cera had been rumored to be nothing of the sort: compassionate, beneficent, one of the few who could hold himself proudly to that paragon height. The Sword might have been awed as well, expression befuddled and perplexed, until the next sentence.
Son of Midas.
Because he’d known Midas, the great pompous jerk, with his Roman nose and holier than thou prosperities, as if he’d never done anything so faithless and irreverent in all his life, as if he was far better, far greater than the rime inhabitants could ever be. The beast had once spewed out his vehemence against them from threshold to sands, and while it might’ve been justified, Deimos had never bothered molding into the same corridors. He’d had better things to do, to commit to, to orchestrate, to command, than ever roaming in Midas’s equal detestation and cutting, caustic, loathing properties – they wove their means and measures into action in the leagues of their wild, vicious, savage contempt. Then the great Lord had been captured and taken to their icy cellars and prisons. He’d been stuffed into their walls. He’d been taken from his home the moment they’d decided to seethe and sink their way into the Falls. Then he’d died, trying to escape from the mountain’s clutches.
He waited for that throng too – the calling of murderer when they’d been away, when Midas had been in Ulrik’s care, while they had been busy massacring another land. Thereafter was naught except confusion, his brows furrowing, then raised back into some neutral stance, breathing concocted back into normal vibrations and rhythm; because not a single modicum of vilification, disapproval, or denunciation sprung from the Prince’s tones, and he was at a loss.
Instead, softness and proclamations resounded and coiled against his senses, forced to look up and glance at the man as they shook hands, disbelief cording him again. Glad you got a second chance here, Lord pierced through his mind, and he shook his head, uncertainty and the unknown blistering at his flesh and bone, at his marrow and soul. “I am too.” But I’m not a King here he wanted to say – he was nothing, nothing nothing nothing at all, no change from the wintery void except there was no throne to preside from – “No need for the Lord,” and he formed the slightest of smiles as hands dropped away, as he swallowed down the choking, cloaking mechanisms threatening to unravel him piece by piece, as he grabbed up the cart’s rope again and resumed their walking pace.
What had he done to earn all this forgiveness? All this tolerance?
The inquiry sparked and sizzled on his tongue while they loomed closer to the exit, the grace of light and apertures searing on his sights, his home closer; his eyes only lingering behind him again as Cera announced he didn’t have any other shifts yet. “In time, then.” He nodded, certain; had seen them, experienced the way those who remained gained their strength – somehow, someway. The Golden Prince would have his too.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
