The Reaper hadn’t truly meant it to be a ruse; just a peek of amusement, of diversion, settled along his chest, a smothered laugh longing to be set free. His mood had sharpened to pure impishness, perhaps due to the setting, to the inhabitants, or the mere fact that his supplies hadn’t been blown to smithereens, allowed him a chance to savor humor. It was a better feeling than self-loathing, contempt, wrath, or the brooding, melancholic bearings that fell across his shadow and carried him from room to room, corridor to corridor, path to path. So he took it for what it was worth, relished in the devilry, in the hours he might’ve spent with friends and comrades, unholy, merciless terrors doing their bidding on unsuspecting prey – cackling wildly when their jokes had fallen suit, when chuckles and guffaws rang out, when even the most ridiculous of pranks and follies seemed outrageously entertaining. It’d been chaotic, but without complete, utter treachery; no bones crushed, no skin flayed, no final breaths taken, no grand oeuvres of warfare streamlined across the sky. So he stared out along the expanse, still behind the massive tree, still striving to muffle the snickers billowing through his figure, but incapable of masking the smile – besides, only the glade would see it, and he doubted it’d share his secrets. “That depends,” answered Mr. Shade, less doom and gloom, more Cheshire being.
Then the noise of another was caught in his ears, and hesitantly, as if he were nothing more than those pieces and pockets of darkness and dusk, folded over and tucked away until he was required again (a blade, a weapon, a cutlass, ready and waiting). But a rapier wasn’t necessary in these hallowed hills, for he could’ve sworn he saw the faintest glow, the eerie, enigmatic requiem of a luxere’s entrance, held his breath, and then maneuvered back, along the threshold of the pine’s towering figure. Deimos could hear Amalia stepping closer too, surely enveloped in the luminous glow, and the beast shrugged, for at least she was successful in her ventures.
The gasp gave him the slightest pause, and then the request nearly made him grumble. What was with the constant requests for his singing? Did people look at him and really believe he was capable of crooning along? The mask had all but been abolished for seconds thereafter, brows furrowed, nose wrinkling, much more a boyish, youthful look than the face of a warrior who’d endured countless trials and tribulations. In the blink of an eye, however, the turn of a devil-may-care streak flickered over his eyes, over his mouth, and he returned instantly back to the days of his youth, when soldiers had celebrated their victories, when friends had all drank their fill and shouted, yelled, howled their triumphant notes with some of the more absurd, hilarious, or asinine notes known to men. The benefits had been no one had cared about anyone’s tone, and they’d all roared with delight as each tale and tune became louder and louder.
He crossed his arms, leaned against the trunk, and remembered one of the many his allies had utilized. It was rough, it was deep, and maybe even grating, but he hadn’t had any alcohol to diminish the standards. “As I was going to Derby, ‘twas on a market day, I met the finest ram, sirs, that was ever fed upon hay.” And he paused here, recalling how the story would build throughout the song, and how after every stanza, every line, the rest of the rabble-rousers would shout: “That’s a lie, that’s a lie, that’s a lie, lie, lie.” Deimos laughed then, broad and genuine, before continuing. “This ram and I got drunk, sir, as drunk as drunk could be, and when we sobered up, sir, we were far away out on the sea.” He poked his head around the tree again, purposefully leaving himself visible, piercing eyes pinpointed on Amalia and the deer. “Then you say, that’s a lie, that’s a lie, and so on.”
