“It's in there, you know,” he said, indicating an obvious flat two-dimensional, turning on the angles of your perspective, fake edifice structure at the other side of the plain, “the first one is in there, I'd wager; you won't – I doubt you've been adequately informed, as regards – how it functions; it's a clear hierarchy of – not very nice things, obviously, we are... here,” he smiled, at him, which he couldn't fail to feel was a strange response to something that he had done – thought, maybe; not knowing, even, how.

Even observing another's apparently benign face was a strange act of defeat for the Fake Soul that Operated Flesh in Repetition. Beside the smile off his lips, the fair youth had – these were the other things – blonde hair by his ears; a white and gold and grey cuirass; no helm – he was just. There. He only had his cuirass; regular grey breeches, large flatbow on his back; a quiver, a small side-sword; really a poignard, a large dagger – was what it was – appended to his side; the rest of the clothes he wore.

He hadn't said anything, didn't know if he could, “That's how the place functions, anyway, as I've gathered. It's no doubt more complex in terms of the clearly religious structures, I don't mean buildings, they are seeking to build here. But the whole thing. It's new. This is all new. – But the first one; in this hierarchy I've mentioned, he's in there.”

“What?”

“A Cyclops.” Something in his eyes behind that –

– So he could speak. Him he was thinking about him/him/him.

He tried again:

The King.

“You've been killing them?”

“Cyclops? I don't want to.” looking around at the several corpses scattered around the place, “These? Absolutely. Your basic common or garden demon-bag, a former human being; a corpse now, scarred up, ransacked, emptied of anything good – soulless, obviously, thankfully, merely the fake-soul demon beings operating the flesh; and not every well, completely uncoordinated, separate, isolated, demonic, alone – in the void.” Laughing at his own redundancy. “But that's your generic demon.”

“Who are you?” said The Fake Soul that Operated Flesh in Repetition.

“Who are you?” He was comfortable with the question he'd posed, but not the response that – his face must have demonstrated a part of this, his pain no doubt – that thing that he called his pain. – The most obvious term had to suffice; there wasn't another large enough/descriptive – accurate – so the word pain; would suffice.

“Doesn't – it's not – it's another matter – me?” Mocking himself for some reason, the youth couldn't be older than twenty years old; yet his manner, and his eyes, indeed, indicated – perhaps it was merely experience; perhaps he'd lived a lot in these years. – But anyway mocking himself in a fashion unusual in such a striking youth, he said: “The Golden Bow.” And indeed his bow was golden. And the arrows too. At this moment the Fake Soul that Operated Flesh in Repetition noticed something, extremely intricate and bizarre, on the youth's quiver, also golden.