“We might meet some good people next time,” Alvah hoped, continuing on as if he never voiced his question of whether or not she enjoyed her quick rescue. The view above her did not brighten to match. By voicing hope instead of doubt, perhaps one might summon it later.

It was strange. Not so long ago she was willing to believe humanity was extinct. He never accepted the idea though. There were probably other survivors out there if there was some village still able to cling to life. Aberrations were drawn to large populations, making them the natural enemies of such societies so there were likely hermits and nomads somewhere that fare even better. Hopefully or maybe hopefully not without the help of another Great One.

“No one is good,” she informed him. “There are only those that make good choices.”

Human nature would never change. The same thoughts that spawned her undoubtedly existed within the remaining humanity. If she was not “good” neither were the ones that conceived her.

Humans were not like her. They had a solidarity to their existence. A human could not change another human. They, like her, had to change themselves but they were far more resistant to change and so remained these fragile creatures.

Even if it was not their nature in the beginning, it most certainly was engrained into them. One could suppose early into human history before the first city walls were ever erected that there were numerous wretches huddled around a fire. Even in later times when the wilderness was overcome, people understood the wisdom of at least one soul keeping watch. Suppose the soul looking out into the distance where the light met the dark saw a shape. There were really only two choices, interpret it as a threat or not a threat. Maybe it was a beast or maybe it was merely a rock, brush, or tree.

One that readied their weapon and raised the alarm over a harmless stone would survive but one that ignored a predator undoubtedly found oneself in the beast's belly. The fearful mindset of seeing danger where there was none outlasted the mindset that failed to see danger. The fearful mindset would be passed down and reinforced by calamities, imagining worse and worse things until those terrors crossed into reality as things such as herself.

“If we encounter more that choose to make… unwise decisions, we already know how we might handle them,” Alvah replied assuringly. “For that we can thank Itxaro. She reminded me how unpredictable we humans can be.”

With the subject of their new traveling companion at the forefront, Desdomena practically whispered, “Are you certain you wish to let her keep your teacher’s knife?” She let her words slither in and slowly worm their way in, probing for precious memories to unbury.

Alvah deflected the thought with a memory of one of his more recent uses of it. She saw it plunge into her own eye. She traced the wound with her fingers and smiled in delight at the deep shadow of sadness and regret it conjured.

Memories could manifest in a number of ways. To her, they appeared to be mirages in the storm, certain details were exaggerated or discarded the way the mind grew fickle with such matters.

“I would have thrown it away if it was not the last gift I received from my master. It was better to pass it on.”

“But you gave that to her upon initiation rather than a mark of passage,” she countered. “An unfitting gift.”

“She proved herself to possess potential but lacks experience,” he assessed. “She learns the basics quickly but does not yet know all the principles. Once she does, we can have an accurate measure of her capabilities.”

Among the basics Alvah was eager to teach her was the discipline that allowed for safer spellcasting. Safer by his definition, being primarily to set boundaries and limits upon her spells to ensure she was not caught in the effects of her own workings. What good such a modicum of security that might bring seemed futile. It was like teaching a child not to play with fire while in a lion’s den especially when the girl seemed uninclined to develop new incantations and her only spell was simply a tiny flame.

Technically, he was teaching her to weaken her own spells. For example, a flame that was designed to burn “anything” could also burn the caster. A flame that was limited to not hurt the caster was inherently weaker as it no longer burned “anything.” It was no longer functioning as an absolute. Yet creating a spell for a flame “that burns anything but the caster” was actually more tiring to use because of the mental constraint of restricting an idea when ideas were wild things that liked to grow and apply themselves and of course the spell would be weaker due to such details.

Alvah was an expert on the matter. He created an art that allowed people other than himself to use his magic, naturally he placed safeguards upon them. Anyone could use his glyphstones once they they understood there was magic within the iconography but no directly harmful effect could be placed upon Alvah. He probably should have set the limit for “and those he cared about” but he never knew when he might have to direct a spell at someone who betrayed him yet he still felt fondness towards. Maybe if he set such protections, he might have realized he was fighting Desdomena if his spells failed to harm her but he did indeed hit her with a bolt of lightning. Desdomena herself was now immune to the spells by virtue of being thought of as a part of him.

The aberration watched the young woman when Alvah did not. It was a waste of energy to give such a person so much attention but she would peak out from the corner of the man’s eye or play the role of sentry.

Their companion was once soaked in violet. The ultimate act of sloth was to let others decide one's future with tints of genuine affection, threads of black, and a selfless center of green. That green now overflowed and shared its dominion with caring red when with her charge, though the threads of black formed a constant ring around her.

A child was not worth observing. They lacked the awareness to form complex patterns at such an age. A baby was orange when it needed to be fed, violet when sleepy, bright red when receiving attention, and a deep blue when left alone.

“But I think it will be a while before that comes to pass,” he predicted. “Once she understands safety, she will not require any more lessons for spellcraft for a time. I gave her a blade, she needed to know how to sheathe it. We can save honing it for later.”

“If you stop giving such lessons. What will you do with all that spare time?” she inquired teasingly.

“There will be other subjects to teach but I could also share that time with Itxaro. I could care for Eneko so she could rest,” he proposed.

Their new companion kept her word and cared for the baby herself. However, every now and then the smell of its soiled clothes would reach Alvah’s nose or its crying would often grate his ears. Everyone would wake to it needing to be fed if Itxaro did not follow a strict schedule.

The low count of unwelcome awakenings could be attributed to both the diligence of the sister and the oddity of the brother. Even if a parent performed their duty perfectly, a baby would find a reason to voice complaint. Eneko was far from normal, even Desdomena could discern that by his behavior alone.

A hypothesis that Alvah had been juggling was that his borrowed spell pushed his development forward. After confirming some important milestones with Itxaro, he was keeping an eye on the infant’s growth. If he started to babble or crawl before half a year passed, there was most certainly something “wrong.”

“She agreed to take responsibility for her brother. Eneko is her burden alone,”

“As an adult, I should at least grant her some leniency. If not that then some courtesy as a traveling companion.”

Courtesy was proof that humans were social creatures. People were weakest when alone. Even the greatest of heroes were vulnerable when stripped of allies.

Humans needed each other, if only to reproduce. It tended to be more than that though. The wealthy needed others for entertainment, the downtrodden needed each other for survival. But people did not need each other to be themselves.

Neither she or her host were complete beings. They were both parasites. He would be orderly husk and she would return to the being of chaos she truly was.

But they had each other and had no need for such things like consideration for others anymore. Except, in spite of everything Alvah still believed in what he called justice. Really, it was more his idea of the divine but if he was right then it would not hurt to ask for a bit of good fortune.

“You show courtesy everyday by teaching her and not throwing her out into the wild.”

“To call oneself kind by saying one abstained from a greater evil…” His thoughts coiled and twisted as he reached a contradiction. “That is the reasoning of a tyrant.”

Evil was a word invented by the unimaginative or the dishonest. She preferred uninhabited or unencumbered. It made everything easier. It was difficult to do anything while burdened, especially by the expectations of strangers.

“That is how you justify me,” she reminded.

“I am aware…” He labored to couple his own need for consistency and her very nature. “You are a creature born contrary to morality. Such ideals need not apply to you. But I would rather not discard my own human decency if I choose to distinguish myself as a human.”

“So, if you call yourself a human still bound to such flimsy ideals? What would you call me? A monster?” she teased.

“I will not call you a monster,” he stated firmly, failing to recognize her words for what they were. It was fun when he misinterpreted matters. Absolute understanding would be utter stagnation.

“Then call me a tyrant,” she suggested. “I would not mind. I am the world. I am all. A tyrant is what I might also be.”

“I will never call you such a thing,” he declared fervently. “Never again. You are Desdomena.”

She scratched her cheek. “I recall you calling me a poison.”

He searched through his memories trying to find a recent occurrence but found nothing. “Did I?” he inquired in confusion.

“You do not remember. You were drugged at the time.” She tilted her head. “Abd you were nice about it. You were being poetic.” She dipped a hand outside and let the memory be carried to the surface. He did not retain it because when they remerged, he had quite a bit to process at the time.

He processed the memory. “I see.”

A long silence passed as he retraced their conversation to its root. “But I believe those two deserve some time to be young. They will have almost a thousand years to be an adult. They can afford to be children for a decade and a half. I would rather they have the chance to remain innocent until they grew up like I did.”

“Innocent” would be the last and first word Desdomena would use to describe someone who sacrificed newborns. “It is too late for her though,” Desdomena declared. “She is responsible for a child that is not even hers. That is more than what most adults would be willing to endure.”

“It is not strange for a sibling to look after another,” he recalled from long ago.

“She is acting outside the bounds of a sister. An older sibling should be jealous of the attention showered upon their younger rival, not be providing such attention.”

Desdomena understood jealousy. Childish pettiness was something most experienced in their lives. Not everyone survived to maturity, so those younger feelings reached her as lives were cut short before they were ever overcome. Even those that did might not have grown up.

Doing what one wanted was also something that came easier to the young. Once one learned of words, one often learned of obtrusive rules. As one grew older and more dependent on others, the less freedom one had. Fortunately, once again not everyone reached the point where they became boringly responsible individuals.

Bright tints of onyx darkened the surface as he assessed her argument. “You are right,” he stated. She remembered this color from when she saved him and he admitted to himself he was wrong. “But that means we need to care for Eneko at least a little so Itxaro can be a proper sibling.”

Desdomena frowned to the last part. His mind steered itself in a rather troublesome direction.

“Do you-“ she began to ask but stopped herself as she realized finishing would only drive him further.

“Do I even remember how to care for children?” he predicted correctly. “I would have had to have been involved to remember. At that age, I had little to do with my children. I was gifted with those already able to speak and write. I suppose that distracted me.”

He spoke of his time as Prince Zibin. She had seen his past on the continent. place was already stripped of color before he ever lost a heart that could feel and occupied by shadows.

He married a woman that was older than himself, the widow of one of his mortal relatives that lacked his longevity. Even in that time, he displayed his horrible calculating nature, selecting a bride that might not live long after he ascended so he had no reason to return from the moon. Did he honestly not consider how she might have felt to be widowed twice? If he did not, Desdomena applauded his selfishness though he likely also thought he was sparing some other young soul the fate of an ageless and distant husband. He treated his stepchildren as an uncle would and spoke to them of philosophy and arts, more a friend than an authority figure, while the babies were nursing,

But she was still lovely. Just because he was planning ahead did not mean he was immune to womanly allure. Youth faded but there were features that ripped with age and he remembered her kindly. Her graying hairs appeared stark white in a realm devoid of color.

Indeed he had children born of him later but any descendants he had left were no more connected to him than strangers. Those that might have been begotten among his fellow deities undoubtedly fell prey to Amirit.

“Should we really be caring for those that have reasons to be vengeful?” she asked. She remembered bursting a hunter’s eardrums, their father. Itxaro did not hold them accountable for his demise at the time but that could change.

“Even if they might be a danger, we should not mistreat them,” he reasoned, he showed some gold in his forgiveness. “One does not kick a dog to prove it is vicious. Again, abstaining from cruelty is not kindness.”

Desdomena’s teeth sharpened into fangs so large she could not entirely close her mouth. “You are the one that was cruel to me, a monster you most certainly knew to be deadly.”

The onyx of humility lingered over lair. “That is proof enough. That was an unsound judgement on my part.”

Desdomena sighed in frustration and delight. An individual with a persona that bent to the will of a single other was an existence more flimsy than herself. However, even as he submitted to her abd acknowledged himself as wrong, he remained steadfast at times.

Alvah had become a distinct mix of responsible and irresponsible. He was responsible for his own actions and followed his own evolving sense of morality now and no one else’s, not even hers. It took courage to do what one wanted once one accepted the concepts of law and discipline, at least in public. Performing such deeds in secret was easy. However, he had been mustering the courage to do what he wished every day since they finally left their city.

However, his desires were still quite simple. The two that constantly rose to the surface was he wanted to “live” and he wanted to be with her. How contrary those two goals were was yet to be decided.

She relented. At the moment, she would find a stone to be more yielding than him. She would wait for another time when he was not already set in his decision.

Then again, she could always order him to abandon the two. He was hers to play with. If she told him to jump, he jumped. But it was nicer when he did what she wanted him to based on his own decisions.

She retracted her legs and stretched. She rested there watching his thoughts move about until the stench of wet excrement troubled Alvah’s nose and reached her in turn.

There were all sorts of smaller aberrations born before the Great Ones. An interesting one would be a monster that only ate children, preferably good children and reveled in the child’s terror and parents’ grief. They targeted those that were particularly loved so the parents missed them all the more. She was not such a thing but the idea was inspiring.

“Perhaps I should have eaten that child,” she whispered to herself.

She watched and listened to see if Alvah took notice of her words. He did not appear to. The lair served as a haven enough to give her privacy if she wished for it.

The baby contributed nothing to conversation, he was merely a living burden. It was not yet a person in Desdomena’s mismatched eyes.

However, if she was to kill him, she would wait. She would wait until after he said his first word. When he could call for his family by name.

She would wait until Itxaro formed a true bond with her sibling but before the frustration and distance that came with familiarity developed. He would be old enough to comprehend what it was that the aberration did.

She contemplated an appropriately slow and terrifying demise. Maybe she could wait until he could swim then tie his hands with snakes and kick him into a lake. Maybe feed him scurrying insects until his stomach burst.

A tragedy that was too well prepared would lose its magnificence. A tragedy had the best flavor when the victims blame themselves and the only scapegoat they could find was the divine. Of all the things people bothered to call evil, murder was among the least of the ones she could imagine.

Simply murdering someone was a kindness. She was rarely recognized to possess kindness.

She exhaled. If she did that, the person she would be hurting would be Itxaro but was the young woman really worth that much attention? The girl betrayed them, that was reason enough to torment her but at the same time dedicating the time and effort on someone that was worthless when she could be enjoying herself through other means seemed wasteful.

She would do as her whims carried her and pettiness was one of the many impulses she was born from. Though she was certain she would do at least as much if Itxaro ever tricked them again.

She was a creature of shadows. She was made out of discarded ideals and she lacked a body thus the emptiness that was her existence was an ideal place to fill with darkness. But just as darkness rushed into any place not claimed by light, darkness could be occupied by anything else. A night could be filled with laughter, joy, and dancing just as easily as crying and carnage.

But she was what people hid away. There were those that discarded their smiles for the sake of appearances but she was more a blight than anything beingn. Each society developed different standards of acceptable behavior, she was predisposed to actions that would be frowned upon if performed in public.

“Alvah,” she called as she placed a hand outside.

“Yes,” he quickly replied. Somewhat distracted, as he helped clean the baby, already deciding to begin aiding Itxaro more with everyday troubles.

“Did you ever feel an overwhelming urge to kill someone?” she asked.

He showed a bit of irritated crimson. “Did I ever tell you I hate it when people use the word “overwhelming” that way?”

“Not in the years that I have known you. I am certain you were quite adamant until recently that you were incapable of something like hate.”

“True. Well, I certainly did hate it when overwhelming was used that way and that aspect of me is starting to return.” More azure came through as he approached the idea like it was a math problem. “To say a desire overwhelmed someone suggests the person lost agency over the matter. Even someone with poor impulse control chooses to act according to their desires. You are proof the suppression of unwanted impulses is possible.”

She smiled widely at his approach.

“What is it?” he asked as she remained silent.

“I just enjoy watching how your mind works,” she replied. It reminded her how broken he was. “I am also proof as to why such emotions should not be suppressed.”

This person was her prize. Playthings were all good and well but she put a lot of effort into capturing him. It would be a waste to break him like any other toy. If she wanted a doll, she would have left him as he was when she first met him.

She spent seven years winning him over. The longest she spent on any other was months. Most she could entrance after a week of whispers and many she dominated in a single night.

“I will not deny that,” he agreed. “Do you wish to speak more,”

“Certainly,” she answered. “But first finish your business with the child so neither of us are distracted with the smell.”

She felt him walking somewhere before the sensation of cold water washed over his hands to rid them of the grime. He needed to be careful as he still had the symbol of an eye lingering as scratches. He was not limping anymore.

It was sad his leg was healing so thoroughly. She hoped he might have a permanent limp to remind him of the night they reached the truth of each other.

Scars were proof of a experience. Some disliked scars but she found them to have value in themselves. Anyone would like a perfect vase or painting but one that had a history with those items would find sentiment in the chips and scratches.The injuries they gave each other would never be appreciated fully by anyone else.

He needed both his eyes for the two to have complete vision. Maybe she could rip one of his ears off so they would match. The thought of biting one of his fingers off crossed her mind.

But what memory would such an act create? For her to cripple him for the sake of creating a memory with no other context? The randomness of it all might make it interesting but it would not be random or on a whim. It would be premeditated, bereft of passion.

Scars helped people remember vital lessons and important events. That was why she did not leave a single mark on the one she wanted to hurt and kill most. She wanted that person to forget the lesson they should have learned so she could teach it again one final time. Though she might have been too through and scarred the mind. Those scars were more difficult to heal but less apparent.

His task complete, Alvah’s focus centered upon her, the storm above narrowed.“You mentioned how you enjoy watching me think. But there is another matter that you enjoy.”

“What might that be?” she asked. There were too many pleasures to count.

“You enjoy hurting me, do you not?” His thoughts were the harmonious blue of logic that dominated most of his mind. To him, it was already a clear fact, not an accusation.

Did he detected her thoughts regarding his leg?

Desdomena pursed her lips. “I would be lying if I said no.”

“I would like to say I am happy when you are happy but that would be a lie,” no new color seeped in. “You are too easily amused and I remain difficult to entertain.”

“You are actually simple to entertain. It is the little things that stir your heart. I suppose being a demigod left you unaccustomed to the mundane.”

She could rearrange the out of boredom and he would not even blink yet be excited if she blew into his ear.

“I still do not appreciate when you threaten others.”

Her cruelty towards others was something he had to accept. That was her nature. As she watched his thoughts were tainted with a tinge of jealousy. He was so starved for sensation that pain was something to cherish.

Not that she wanted to change that aspect of him anytime soon. She could play with him any way she wanted as long as he remained that way.

Desdomena dived into the currents and let it carry her to the surface where the storm reigned. “Then what makes you happy?”

Flashes of scenes soared about. For someone thousands of years old, he had very few memories he was willing to conjure. The rare anceint recollections to heed his call were faded, drained of most of their color. She counted a few dozen memories in all, at most. Flatteringly, most involved her smiling. A part of her face twitched as his mind lingered for a moment on when he was teaching lessons and first encountered another human.

Everything besides the memories become solid blue like she had been lifted into a cloudless sky. Every was melded into a single concentrated effort.

He started to arrange everything in chronological order, images parading around her like pages from a dancing picturebook. He held onto the image of her smiling in a crystal garden and discarded everything afterward one by one as he sought something that matched that intensity.

Then the image came to clash with another and was overwhelmed. For a moment, she thought the older memory won once again. The new victor was remarkably similar to the previous one but Desdomena noticed there was no background, she was the sole subject except the ribbon in her hand.

“I am most happy when I make you happy,” he concluded.

She had heard those words from others. They were either lying, fools, deranged, all three.

Never before had those words been presented so coldly and factually. It was as if he was stating the obvious like fire was warm and ice was cold.

Her existence was so firmly rooted in him, that it was akin to a law of nature.

She never felt embarrassment in her life. Out of the mental debris she was born from, she doubted even a speck of shame found its way into her. Shame was something people aknowledged in most places. It was what kept deviancy like herself from being fully expressed in public.

For a moment, just a moment, she felt something pool in her eyes but that vanished as if it never existed. Had she ever truly cried? She could fake tears but she failed to remember a moment where she expressed genuine joy or sorrow through such things. Ironically, her wound seeped when she felt rage like her anger was overflowing and escaping through her eye like a beverage spilling through the crack of a chipped cup.

Her own memories of her original intentions and even her actions were untrustworthy. She defined herself on a whim and could redefine herself as she pleased. She had done it before and could do it again. She would discard the name and identity of Desdomena once the person who gave it meaning was no more.

No, she did have a memory of crying when no one was looking. She would have been the only witness. A passionless doll expressed quite clearly that he lacked doubt as to her absence of a soul. If no one would respect a monster, she could at least respect herself. Though the respect within her was of such small quantity that she expended it all on herself. Those words still hurted her worse than a knife.

Nor had she ever known guilt. The closest she knew to regret was when she looked back to a particularly fun excursion and thought “I should have savored that more.”

Her mistakes, those that got away, gave her something to look forward to. Finishing something fun was simply a conclusion. She did not want this rush, this validation to ever be over. Once it was over, all she was left with was herself.