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Decay stood before him draped in blackened robes, clutched within his arms a golden head of curly hair so similar to Morgan's own that Alex was taken aback for a fraction of a second, freckles peeking out over a bruised nose. A beaten man – nay, a god – with an ichor drenched himation, tattered and torn by no hand of the god holding him so securely. As though he would perish if Decay let go.
Decay cradles the unnamed god close to his chest in a hug more than a carry, supporting his weight all the same, but Alex can see where the tatters of cloth bare the god's back to the world. From his shoulder blades nearly down to his flanks, two great tears bleeding gold. The shimmer of pained tears on freckled cheeks. The scuffs on a disarrayed crown of golden laurels, cracked like a broken halo.
Alex's heart aches for what if that were Morgan?
“I've done my part and mine has suffered. Now go to him. I will ensure you never cross the River Styx if it means an end to this.” Decay promises with a look so dangerous, the shadows in the corners of the room darken and begin to dance. Intricately, they leak from their hidden spots in the room, stretching to wrap the pair in a wispy smoke and leaving nothing in their wake when they settle back into place once they've finished their waltz. Like the room breathed and then they were gone.
The faint scent of smoke, mint, and hellebore, the only evidence they had ever been there. Peppery in taste and a sweet, floral herb that tickles his nose, like cooking a Winter meal over burning firewood in the snow.
Alex much prefers the smell of Summer.