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A soft groan is muffled into the goose-down pillow as Demiurge slowly pushes upward, arms aching from exertion. The iron plates of his tail clink as it curls tightly then unfurls as he stretches, and his feet brush the plush carpet when he carefully slides out of bed.

He shivers in the chilly air and the openness of being threadbare in someone else's room.

Malphas' room, to be particular.

Stealing a furtive glance over his shoulder, Demiurge admires the portrait of his predecessor; he is artfully arranged on a background of black satin, his outline broken up with abstract pools of light cast by the amber dawn slipping through where the drapes aren't pulled tight. Crimson claw marks earned in the throes of passion streak his shoulders, back and ribs. Malphas is ever reminiscent of a lounging tiger, as equally deadly as he is beautiful, even in sleep.

The Seventh Floor Guardian licks his fangs and steadies himself with a slight sway, his head swimming from a mild hangover as a result of polishing off a bottle of blood wine. Once he finds sure footing, he stalks away from the bed to the bathroom.

He needs a shower to fully come to.

The Arch Devil guides his hand along the wall as he goes, groggily noting the grand size of the bathroom, complete with both a shower and tub, pristine marble countertops veined in silver, and accents of golden fixtures and rods lined with fluffy purple towels edged with elaborate liana embroidery. It is easily three times as large as his own master bath in Nazarick, though befitting in regards to his brother's massive size.

Malphas' new profession has earned him the title of Lord of Steeds within the Royal Capital, and it affords him luxury that rivals even the most prestigious royalty in the region. Despite his wealth, his duty demands that he spend the majority of his day outdoors, either to bale hay, trim hooves or repair the Bicorn stables when the stallions' aggression boils over after the mares come into season. His work is never done, and this means many of his rooms and his furniture suffer little wear or use, save for his bed and the leather settees in the living room.

Despite his lavish furnishings, it is only on rare occasion that Malphas indulges himself anymore, whether it be in food, drink, rest, or carnal relations; one could say that Malphas has become quite the workaholic, and last night made this fact glaringly obvious.

Malphas drank like a fish and practically pounded Demiurge's shape into the mattress, and he could feel every ounce of tension that had been wound tight unleash in the form of a furious fucking, and Demiurge cannot recall the last time he nor his brother required sleep afterwards.

Demiurge takes a moment to regard his state in the wall-length mirror. Bite marks and bruises bloom over his flesh like livid purple flowers, all over his neck, the breadth of his shoulders and chest. Bracelets of spotty contusions encircle his wrists where Malphas had pinned him down at one point. A twin set of deep, red grooves wrap around his hips where the elder Devil's claws held him in place as he drove into him without mercy.

How he wishes he could wear them, all of them, home.

The demon steps into the shower for a short wash. A breathy sigh passes over his lips as the warmth seeps into his flesh, soothing his strained muscles. He turns his back to the spray, and the deep punctures scoring his nape sting sweetly, making him hiss through his teeth. His blood heats at the memory of how he got them. Malphas had employed a restraint bite as he fucked him from behind; the elder Devil's scorching breath huffing through his nose, tickling the fine hairs at the base of his head as he kept his hands pinned to the mattress. How Malphas roared against him as he erupted, spurting endlessly into him. How he soared with his own climax as his brother pumped his shaft, and then the high of the natural sedative found in Incubus release kept him there, floating in velvet-wrapped ecstasy for hours.

He finishes showering, and towels off.

Demiurge pads silently back into the bedroom, and gleans for his clothes, hoping to spot his button-down shirt or jacket to throw on, and he shivers when he doesn't see either. He then vaguely recalls they are still strewn about the hallway.

This region of the continent is much cooler compared to the cozy warmth of the Seventh Floor which he has grown so accustomed to. He doesn't know how Malphas can stand it- but he then reminds himself his brother never had a choice, and his gut tightens with what he surmises must be guilt.

A sneer curls his lips. Gods below, he hated to feel even so much as a thread of humanistic emotion. The demon swallows thickly, shoving it down, down into that dark pit within his stomach where he suppresses all that may suggest he is anything but the perfectly composed, cold and calculating Devil Lord Ulbert designed him to be.

Another chill rolls through him, and he realizes he has been standing in the center of the room, staring unseeing into oblivion. He frowns and his tail whips in irritation; the most disconcerting thing about these unfamiliar emotions is that they leave him disarmed, unbalanced.

Vulnerable.

Demiurge refocuses his attention to the bed, his sight a bit watery without his spectacles. The promise of warmth, of resting for a bit longer is enticing, and he slides beneath the sheets, stealthily, so as not to wake Malphas.

His head comes to rest on the pillow, and his gemstone gaze settles upon his brother's face. Demiurge searches his features in silence, taking this priceless gift for what it is: a chance to memorize him before he again must return to Nazarick for... he doesn't know how many months this time.

Malphas' features, so much like his own, are serene in slumber, his lips parted and stray strands of raven hair tangle with his feathery lashes. Not even the most skilled marble smith could hope to sculpt a visage so exquisite. Only a Supreme Being is capable of forging such magnificence.

Why Lord Ulbert ever felt the need to recreate his elder brother- as though Malphas was not already the height of perfection, a true masterpiece of Supreme Creation- is beyond him.

The scientist in him queries, wants to determine motive and pick apart what his Lord could have possibly deemed as a flaw so severe that his creation must be rebuilt; but Demiurge's ingrained loyalty to his Creator defiantly snarls that he should never question the ineffable plans of the Supreme Ones.

Still, it bothers him. Malphas can command legions of shadows to do his bidding, is a master of fire magic and his brute strength rivals Albedo's. Why would Lord Ulbert be dissatisfied with such a remarkable demon?

To create himself, Malphas' shape had been streamlined to be shorter, lither, and his facial features sharpened to achieve a more impish appearance, his intelligence and speed heightened, but a smaller frame resulted in reduced strength.

However, it did not escape Demiurge's attention that the majority of what was changed was almost entirely cosmetic... which leaves him to wonder- could it have all been for vanity?

'No, this is a dangerous train of thought.' The demon scolds himself for daring to tread in forbidden waters.

Demiurge's jaw works as he tucks beneath the sheets and watches the steady, even breath of the Devil next to him. The muscles in his throat tighten as he swallows down the rising lump, an upwelling of years of suppressed emotions, and he feels his brows draw in with discontent.

He doesn't want to leave Malphas behind again.

And so, he shifts a little closer to his brother to feel his breath pool warmly against his shoulder, as close as he can possibly be without touching him and closes his eyes to savor his comforting scent of wildfire and cinnamon amidst undertones of sage and sandalwood.

He smells like warmth, comfort, familiarity- like home.

Malphas begins to stir when he feels the gentle slide of Demiurge shuffling towards him. Having slept like the dead after a night of drinking, his eyes are heavy - and he doesn't open them just yet. He allows himself to bask in the warmth and weight of the body before him, and listen to the soft cadence of Demiurge's breath.

The original Guardian of the Seventh Floor cannot recall the last time Demiurge willingly crawled back into bed with him. Normally the younger Devil would slip out and leave without so much as a word.

When Demiurge was here, he could actually fool himself into believing this was his home- that he belonged here. He wouldn't jolt awake from an exile-induced nightmare in a cold sweat with his heart crashing against his chest, or simply lie in bed for hours wishing he still had something, anything that carried his brother's scent to lull him to sleep. Everything feels aligned, complete with him here.

Malphas knows if he opened his eyes to meet Demiurge's at this moment, they'd glitter with a kaleidoscopic, opaline brilliance in the morning light.

He maintains the illusion of sleep for a few moments longer, allowing Demiurge a moment to change his mind and take his leave if he so chooses. But his lips curve into a smile when he feels Demiurge's breath puffing against his shoulder, giving himself away.

Malphas purrs with soft acknowledgement, and stretches one arm out to drape over his younger brother's shoulder, pulling him closer.

He feels Demiurge tense, that same instinctive reaction that suggests deep-seated doubt more than anything else. Malphas brings his hand up higher, to stroke against the back of Demiurge's head instead, gently carding his fingers through his hair in a gesture of reassurance.

His younger brother was resistant to affection outside of lust; a complexity in his creation, but he was granting him quite a bit of slack today. Rarely did Demiurge allow for this level of intimacy; the last time he let Malphas hold him like this was right before he was stripped of his title as Seventh Floor Guardian and sent here to oversee the Bicorn ranch instead. So Malphas knows he must need something from him.

But to enjoy this for even a moment longer, Malphas is quite willing to pay whatever price Demiurge has set.

When he finally opens his eyes, Demiurge's instantly snap to him, sharp and hawk-like. As suspected, his eyes shimmer in mesmerizing, iridescent splendor.

"Good morning." Malphas murmurs, his voice rumbling like distant thunder with sated satisfaction. He shifts, bringing himself closer to Demiurge. With a metallic rasp of steely plates, Malphas corkscrews his tail around his brother's and sighs contentedly.

The smaller demon allows himself to be drawn close, eyes shuttering as Malphas combs his claws through his dark mane. Demiurge inhales steadily and nestles his head beneath Malphas' chin, his breath warming the hollow of the elder demon's throat. Malphas can smell faint traces of human blood, still fresh from the night before- he must have performed experimental surgery.

"Good morning," Demiurge quietly replies. "I had to make use of your shower."

He keeps his eyes closed. It's too much right now to see Malphas like this, looking at him as he always does the morning after and holding him like he never wants to let him go; like caustic acid, it relentlessly eats at something inside of him he would rather not acknowledge. Demiurge shifts in an attempt to dislodge the sensation.

"I used your towel." He tells him, knowing how Malphas loves when he leaves his scent on his things.

Demiurge then chances a glance upwards.

"Mm. Could I convince you to give the same blessing to the rest?" A playful suggestion from Malphas, his lips curving into that roguish smirk that makes his pulse skip as he slides the calloused pads of his fingers over Demiurge's hipbone.

"Perhaps."

Malphas cards his fingers through Demiurge's hair once more, and glides his palm further up to cup the back of his head and hold him softly against him, following an impulse to lay Demiurge's heartbeat over his own to feel them sync.

He doesn't want this moment to end- he wants to lock it away in his heart for safekeeping, so it might keep him warm on the lonely nights when he awakens to a cold and empty bed.

Unfolding the arm which he had been resting his head on, Malphas slips it under the sheets and lets his hand splay low over Demiurge's back, fingertips just skimming the dip of his spine, bleeding warmth into copper skin that is just a shade darker than his own.

Malphas ducks his head to bury his nose into his brother's hair, and whispers, "I've missed you, Demiurge."

His words silently obliterate and then reform him.

Demiurge does not reply, but the tightening of his tail around Malphas' own and the flattening of his ears says enough. The moment then crystallizes into something delicate and fragile, and a single melancholy note plucks between them, threatening to shatter it, as it always does when Demiurge has to leave soon and they both know it.

Demiurge hesitates in asking for what he came here for, leaving it unsaid for the time being, because he has come to realize how much he too has missed Malphas.

He braces against his brother as Malphas' arm encircles him, and pulls him into the elder Devil's chest. Demiurge looks up and catches his brother's sapphire gaze, full of longing.

Longing for just an hour. A few minutes. A mere moment more before he must return to the Tomb.

Malphas' palm glides slowly over his bare skin, and Demiurge relaxes into it, sighing as Malphas' lips brush against his brow in a pleasantly feverish touch, sweetly searing to his hypersensitive skin.

"I suppose I cannot allow you to return to Nazarick looking as though you have been mauled." Malphas muses. "Although I very much enjoy seeing you so beautifully painted in carnal colors."

"Mmm." Demiurge hums in agreement. "And I relish wearing them. Unfortunately, I doubt Lord Ainz will find it as aesthetically pleasing as you or I. You went a bit too high this time."

Demiurge was referring to how the collar of his shirt would normally hide the marks, but as he said, Malphas could not have cared less in the heat of the moment, and in the urge to taste every inch of him, strayed too high along his throat.

"I'll retrieve a potion for you then." Malphas says and kisses his neck, and reluctantly extricates his limbs from around the smaller demon and rises to his feet. Demiurge watches the ripple of leonine muscle as the six-foot-six demon stretches with a groan, and he shamelessly licks his lips. Malphas strides to his armoire and opens it to dig out his clothes.

The Arch Devil is built with thick slabs of muscle, smooth and defined like a marble statue; the width of his shoulders emphasizes the band of muscle around his hips, delineated by the sharp V that deliciously frames his groin. His back is carved with heavy sinew and possesses a lovely furrow along his spine that leads to two faint dimples above the base of his armor-plated tail. He is predatory perfection; if Demiurge is designed for an elegant and stealthy hunt, Malphas is built for a brutal blunt-force kill.

"Could I trouble you for a spare?" Demiurge sees his opening. "I'm working on a new experiment, one which is most promising, but I fear the subject's brain damage may be permanent if I cannot administer something stronger than what I have on hand at the Tomb."

"A spare potion, hmm?" Malphas casts a playfully skeptical glance back at his brother, and Demiurge abandons the bed.

"It would be greatly appreciated." Demiurge adds and approaches his brother.

"Then I suppose it wouldn't hurt if I made a few more marks before we wipe the slate clean?" Malphas insinuates, and reaches for his chin to pull him forward, his tongue hot and sinful, tasting of wine and dark lust as he traces the seam of his mouth. Demiurge moans as he unseals his lips, letting him in. Desire settles beneath Demiurge's breastbone like a heated stone, and he meets the kiss head-on.

As his tongue sieges his mouth, the elder Devil draws his talons lightly over Demiurge's ribs, with just enough pressure to cause a delicious frisson to zip through his body, making him shiver.

The tender crush of his lips is achingly luscious. Demiurge finds himself purring, a deep feline rumble as he slides his tongue into Malphas' mouth, licking slowly, sensually.

Malphas spins him around, and Demiurge's back is warm against his chest when he pulls him close there, pliant and willing, and shifts his hips back against Malphas.

Malphas ducks his head and presses hot lips to Demiurge's jaw. His hands trace the immaculately carved muscles of Demiurge's abdomen, trailing lower to tease around the base of his shaft.

Malphas fangs glide down Demiurge's neck, threatening to snag the tender flesh, his tongue leaving wet-hot swaths as he finally curls his fingers around his shaft, stroking slowly, just enough to feel him rapidly thicken in his palm, heavy and hot. Demiurge makes a strangled groan of pleasure, and bucks into his hand, ever impatient and hungry for something more aggressive.

"So impatient..." Malphas chuckles darkly, keeping his pace excruciatingly unhurried and nipping his way over Demiurge's shoulders, down his back where he traces his tongue over every dip and rise of his spine before finally bending Demiurge forward over a dresser next to the armoire.

He remains bent, curved to suit Malphas' pleasure, leaning forward to feel the lacquered wood press cold and hard into his chest. Malphas swipes his tongue over the punctures on Demiurge's nape, and groans.

He loves to see his marks all over him, to know no other male has ever touched him as he has.

"Malphas..." Demiurge whines, and the massive Devil growls low in response, "You taste so good."

Demiurge is suddenly pulled up from the dresser, and then hurled effortlessly onto the mattress.

The younger demon's pulse spikes, excitement whipping through his veins like lightning. Demiurge loves when Malphas gets rough with him- he_craves_ sexual violence.

"Face down," Malphas commands, and Demiurge complies without hesitation. "Don't move."

Demiurge rests on his elbows and Malphas continues mouthing over his skin in a reverence that makes the Seventh Floor Guardian tremble with need and arch for more.

Malphas flips his tail over his back and spreads Demiurge with both hands, to breathe just barely against where he is most sensitive, before leaning in close and swiping the tip of his tongue over the furled entrance.

Demiurge lets out a visceral groan into the pillow as he registers the wet heat and pressure of Malphas' tongue, a curve sweeping through his back as he sinks further onto his elbows. The second pierce, just a tad deeper than the first has his fingers curling into claws to fist the sheets. A hot coil of desire unwinds in his stomach, a twist of dire pleasure that pushes another moan past his lips.

Each soft caress of Malphas' tongue is followed by a heated, moist breath that quickly cools against Demiurge's sensitive skin, making him shudder. He reaches back and grasps his own shaft, solid and hot in his hand.

"Malphas," Demiurge breathes, a tremulous gasp. His hips arch higher, pressing back into the warm mouth that teases the silken vice of his body. His tail coils around Malphas' thick bicep as his ministrations cause Demiurge to break out into a light sheen of sweat, turning his flesh into molten bronze.

And Malphas savors it- every twitch and tremble, every gasp and cry that Demiurge fails to cage behind gritted fangs.

Demiurge's body is made for this, for him; how he moans, how he whimpers- sounds he knows one else could ever hope to draw forth from the normally stoic demon as he pleads for more, for less, deeper... Malphas has learned precisely the depth of pleasure it takes to devour him whole.

He slides his hands away, for just a moment, to spread Demiurge's thighs for him further and draw a barely voiced plea from the demon under him - but not beneath him.

No. He wants to raise Demiurge like an idol, worship him, remind him, teach him to understand.

'You are perfection, my other half, my everything. You complete me.'

He licks from the silky skin of Demiurge's sac to his entrance again, slow, deliberate, and holds him open just enough to push the tip of his tongue in, feeling the spasm of pleasure that contracts the muscles around his tongue, that reduces Demiurge's entire being into a trembling, whimpering mess.

Malphas' lips peel back in the most insidious of grins as he hears the muffled sob Demiurge expels into the sheets, and presses further.

Hades, he breaks so beautifully for him.

Demiurge's entire body jolts from a sharp exhale, only to expand again with a honeyed snarl that tears itself from his chest. He tenses in ecstatic resistance, wanting Malphas to stop, wanting Malphas to keep going, wanting it harder, softer, faster, slower, everything - all at once.

He loses himself in the blinding ecstasy that burns phosphorus bright behind his eyes. A kind of lost that is so sinfully sweet that it can only be found with Malphas.

Barely able to work his hand against himself, Demiurge gasps against the sheets.

"Don't stop," Demiurge pleads, a whimper snaring in his voice, laden with need. The walls around him turn to dust, raw desire pulsing as fast as his heart crashes against his chest.

Malphas obliges, and doesn't even slow down when Demiurge starts to systematically break apart in his hands, all inhibitions forgotten.

He only stops when he can smell his body's cry for release as he nears the edge, fangs bared and eyes screwed shut, clawing at the sheets with one hand and the other tight around his shaft as he strokes with a desperate grip.

Malphas catches his hand to still him.

"Not yet," He murmurs into his trembling back. "Be patient."

The order draws another whine from him, long and shaking, and Malphas presses his body over Demiurge's for just a moment, just enough to allow Demiurge to melt back into him.

"Look at you..." he breathes, eyes hooded, throat working to swallow before he leans down to kiss him. "So stunning, the way you break for me."

Malphas rolls him onto his back, and their mouths meet, sliding smoothly together.

Demiurge winds his arms around Malphas' neck, pulling him close. Malphas' body settles in over his brother, dense and heavy with the primal power and muscle.

Demiurge nips and nuzzles along the hard line of Malphas' jaw and cheek, until he can bury his face against his neck and let his mouth come to rest against his jumping pulse.

"Please."

Malphas moves against him, to rest on his knees between Demiurge's legs, spreading them farther with his own. He reaches for his dripping shaft as he pulls back just enough to sit up.

He rolls the slick fluid oozing from his swollen head between his fingers before sliding his other hand against Demiurge's thigh, up under his knee to spread him just a little further open.

Malphas presses two fingers in, and they slide in with ease, his body already relaxed and pliant from the lavish treatment of Malphas' tongue. It seems almost a formality to stretch him at all, but... Malphas will admit that watching the tiny jerks of Demiurge's exhausted body as he caresses just around his prostate is something he would never tire of.

"Demiurge," he murmurs, sliding his hand over his own shaft now, spreading his pre-release. "Look at me."

His eyes open, having drifted lazily closed as he arches at the curl of fingers inside of him, lips parted just enough to allow soft vocal sighs to pass in response.

Demiurge arches, his cock straining, looking utterly debauched with his bare skin so beautifully flushed and shivering exquisitely at the sweat drying on him. He lifts a hand to Malphas' cheek and lets his thumb drift over his mouth, tracing against the lush curve of his lips, the sharpness of his fangs.

Their eyes meet, Demiurge's heavy-lidded and languorous, back arching suddenly upward, the length of his body driving itself against Malphas as he spears his fingers through Malphas' hair, gripping firmly to tug him into a more pleasing position, their bodies mirrored.

"Please." Scarcely more than a whisper, but with it, awareness.

Malphas smiles, all fangs and utterly predatory. Then he ducks his head and kisses Demiurge as he aligns himself to give a steady push, sinking the first four inches into his molten heat with one smooth, brutal thrust.

He slides forward, and Malphas forgoes the potential for gentleness just to feel the harsh breath it pushes out of Demiurge to press in fully, spreading his thighs with the motion. He groans, visceral and deep, and for a moment he can barely move; it never fails to amaze him, the staggering perfection of their fit. He only returns to himself when Demiurge squeezes around him, writhing in agonized ecstasy as Malphas bottoms out, setting his blood to simmering. One hand slides up to wind into Demiurge's hair and yanks his head back until he's arched off the bed. He leans down and bites, viciously enough to draw blood.

When Malphas moves, it isn't gentle or tender, not anymore. It's animalistic possession in its rawest form, and when he drags his tongue up the side of Demiurge's face, his brother wraps his legs around his hips and sinks his fangs into Malphas' shoulder in retaliation. Talons carve deeply into the elder Devil's back, and Malphas' hands push bruises into Demiurge's thighs where he holds him spread.

He ducks his head to rest against Demiurge's collarbone, hand still fisting his hair but no longer able to hold Demiurge bent. He sets his teeth to Demiurge's clavicle and tugs Demiurge so close against him it's hard to tell where one ends and the other begins. Then he shallows his thrusts, turns Demiurge just so to feel him jerk at the white-hot pleasure that flares through him as he grazes his prostate. Over and over, again and again and again until Demiurge is nearly convulsing under him, voice free, loud, run ragged.

Demiurge snarls gasping beneath Malphas' teeth, an inky black miasma gripping him. The last of the fight left in him, that self-same instinct that hours before rained death, the same hand that brought down savage destruction against another now snares Malphas by the throat and claws sharp at the soft skin there. Fierce resistance as his fingers clench harshly beneath Malphas' chin, even as Demiurge's body bridges and pulls tight in acceptance of the pressure driving hard into him.

His entire awareness became trembling, sweat-slicked muscles. A luscious flexing.

Malphas enters him smoothly, but every surge of his hips draws a rough cry unrestrained, tearing Demiurge apart at seams already frayed - too deep, too wide.

Violent.

He demands more of Demiurge now, takes more, claims more - expectations raised without a doubt that Demiurge can not only meet but surpass them.

Demiurge fights, bucking his body against the Devil mounted atop him, his internal muscles tightening deliciously around his girth as he digs his heel in and cinches his thighs over Malphas' hips to trap him there. Demiurge tries to usurp him, tries to push him off, over, to claim a dominant position but Malphas holds him down effortlessly, and Demiurge bites into Malphas' shoulder instead, piercing skin and tasting a trickle of iron-hot blood against his tongue.

Running his tongue along the jagged points of his fangs, crimson-stained and sharp, Demiurge delights in the coppery sweet ringing over his tongue. He smiles against the livid mark he's left, knowing that for as deep as Malphas is buried in him, he's equally deep inside Malphas. Inextricably intertwined, joined beyond bodies, beyond mind.

They are one in the same, two sides of the coin.

Fangs gnashing and talons raking over each other, they are as wolves engaged in vicious play that to any but themselves would appear as hateful. But when Malphas bares his teeth in a grin and pins Demiurge's wrists above his head, lacing his fingers with his, holding fast.

And with the release of a sigh like laughter, the fight ceases, the thrashing turning to quick undulations Demiurge can't control, snarling turned to panting and whimpers and pleas. Malphas twists, enough to allow his free hand between them, to grip Demiurge and feel his cock throbbing and slippery wet as it drips with need.

It doesn't take much. Demiurge is already at his limit of endurance and ecstasy, and he breaks with a stuttered gasp against Malphas' throat as he spills over in his hand, his body quaking.

It's enough for Malphas to brace against the headboard, taking Demiurge's hand with him, to go still, muscles taut in rapture and moan Demiurge's name against him.

His arm sags and then curls above Demiurge's head, fingers languid now, thumb stroking in soothing motions over Demiurge's knuckles as he catches his breath, and he draws his nose alongside Demiurge's in the closest approximation of a kiss either can manage as they gasp for air.

The ache in Malphas' shoulder is the least of his concern, and the mess doesn't matter - not the blood, the sweat, nor the release painting their bodies. The only thing that matters, that feels real and whole and perfect is the demon now barely conscious in his arms.

Malphas wants it to mean something.

Demiurge has never verbally returned his sentiments, and what they have and what it means to him is never clear; Demiurge is colder than he, and less adept at expressing emotions, save for cold calculation, hatred or rage. Such is his design- but Malphas supposes what it means doesn't really matter.

It means.

And for Malphas, that is enough.