The line between good and evil is the centre of the human heart.
- Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn
The clandestine cabin of theirs has been established long enough that it isn't unusual for them to spend a day or more at rest here.
It has almost become comfortable – it smells like mountain air and ancient trees with deep roots that shape the earthy slopes, winding deep beneath the surface amongst solid stone. The ambiance is decorated, not disturbed, by the presences of the cohabiting animal species.
No mortal has yet found this place, no sentient lungs have breathed the pure oxygen to pollute the wind with their words.
Except for Black and Zamasu, that is, who are far removed from being mere mortals.
The clouds that hug the base of the summit begin to recede, cut by the first slivers of dawn. These slivers glitter fractures off the lake's still surface, yet alight the mountaintop, near and yet miles above, in a blanket of unbroken light. The calls of local fowl accompany the awakening; a fish leaps from the mirror of water.
Black inhales, then exhales, with lungs he's not sure he'll ever be wholly accustomed to.
One day, the rest of the Earth would be paradise such as this.
Weight on the porch's floorboards has Black turning from the scene before him, his gaze drifting to the sole other occupant of the sizable wooden cabin.
In what is all but a routine fashion, Zamasu walks and sets two cups on the outdoor table, corroborative to where the two seats are positioned at it. Wisps of steam rise from the dishware; the drinks have been prepared beforehand.
Black follows his companion's suit and moves to sit, across from the renegade Kai. The Saiyan-bodied man has never found it strange to see his former self, never found it strange that Zamasu is the one who prefers to fix the tea that Black couldn't be bothered to have unless it was prepared for him.
The warmth of the sencha takes the edges off the faint morning chill.
"The humans have been quiet," Zamasu says after a long but easy pause. He sits poised, a sharp contrast to the other man's languorous posture.
Black takes a draft of his tea, downing the remaining half of it and letting the flavour linger in his mouth for a moment before answering.
"There aren't all that many left to make noise, Zamasu."
"That's true," the Kai agrees and ponders his drink again. "But unlike the beasts of this planet, they don't stand quietly when facing extinction. I assume that they're planning some attempt at retaliation."
"You mean the Saiyans are planning it. Our task on this world would be done if not for their interruption."
"A snag that's temporary all the same."
Black taps his index finger on his cup. There is a soft clinking sound from where his stolen ring meets the tableware before he stops to speak again.
"It's always best to savour the main course. Too quickly consumed and one loses the satisfaction of the act."
Zamasu's steel grey gaze meets his future incarnation's.
"The Kais giving mortals the gift of life is akin to cancer forming as a leech, a betrayal, from the otherwise healthy body. We're simply retracting that gift – the imperative burning of the disease, when every mortal lies purged, is what will satisfy me."
Human bigotry, selfishness, hypocrisy, and violence – Black too takes pleasure in watching them roil from the consequences of their own sin. Though this delicious form of self-inflicted penance is not enough alone.
The heart of flesh that beats within Black still does so with valiance; it still drums with the rhythm of a warrior's blood. Simple, yet so visceral. The real satisfaction is in using the power of a mortal's body, so easily alive with adrenaline, to deliver justice.
He'd first taken the Saiyan's form, and then his name – was it not his, a god and therefore a creator, to take? Was it not his prerogative to destroy the mortal illusion of righteousness, beginning with the wife and child of humanity's symbol of such?
A bird lands on the structured railing surrounding the deck. Black's dark eyes assess its soft sheen. Then, he turns back to Zamasu, cocking his head as the sunlight glints off his earring.
"The beauty in the burning is what makes it savoury," he says, rising to his feet and approaching the railing.
Black lets his newfound power flow through him and activates Rosé, the pink aura bathing the area even in the daylight. The bird absconds from its nearby perch, disrupted.
He looks back at his counterpart, their eyes now a matching steel. They are one and the same mind, but Black's godly soul has been woven with a mortal heart, crafting something nigh unstoppable. He knows he understands the dichotomy between divinities and their creations more than anyone – perhaps it is why he enjoys the physical paradox he has become to carry out his desires.
Gods and mortals alike have fallen before him, and will continue to perish in his wake until nothing is left but what deserves to be – what is beautiful.
And flames, whether those of the sunrise or of destruction caused by his hand, are both a cleanser and an enticing thing all their own.
Black feels his blood burn with anticipation and takes to the air, leaving Zamasu behind.
Zamasu watches him go. Returning his attention to his tea, he sips it and smiles.