Work Text:
Zenos beholds the god of war.
His heart fills with love, and for the Endsinger, a semblance of pity. How could he not? The poor fool was to die of ignorance. No one but Zenos knew of the certain outcome, for no one but he knew the true nature of the divine before him.
That knowledge is why he feels so passionately for them. He is the only one who can honor them appropriately, and now, he has realized his purpose is just that.
Prideful of his dedication, Zenos boasts of his journey to their side, and they grace him with a response. "I won't save you, if it comes to it." There is no emotion in their voice, but it carries a deep warmth to Zenos nevertheless, for it glows with power, with confidence, with glory. He knows, and he adores them for it. He knows that he is unneeded. He knows that the hero will burn the Endsinger to ashes the instant they wish for it, no matter if there is ground beneath their feet or void. But he offers all the same: to be their deliverance, and in return, he yearns to be forever delivered from his solitude by their divine hand.
When Zenos shows his back, they climb onto him wordlessly. He now offers to them a stage, not to secure the trophy, but to provide the means of a clean cut through the neck, one worthy of a wall mounting. Zenos does not care to be remembered alongside – he has no interest in such things anymore– but he cannot help wondering how the bards' songs could sharpen a god's tale.
He feels their weight and warmth against his scales. They pull his mane like reins, and dutifully, he carries them to their legends, his heart glowing with joy.