EREBOS

His experience with death had been strange and enigmatic, patchwork images and broken whims, causing him to question, to wonder, to unravel bits and pieces of the scarce, unwinding information. The young prince had seen the devastation and ruin demise held upon the body: in the series of murders, the victims had been marked, wounded, butchered, and even as he stood there amongst the gathered, they never drew another breath. Everything was final, abrupt, shattering. They didn’t move. They didn’t dream. They didn’t do anything but become ash and soil, bleached bones and shades of legends. But none of them had affected him personally. He hadn’t known their statures, the wayward colt or the proud mare, the damaged warrior or the fallen angel - he hadn’t heard their stories, their mythos, seen their strength or regality. All he’d witnessed were their battered frames and the saddening scope of passing, and the gentle, noble, gallant interludes of childish longing had begun to flourish, an ambitious slide, a relentless upheaval. Could he prevent death? Could he tear it away from those he cherished, vowed to protect? Could he, one day, many eons from now, abolish a sword swinging for Rikyn’s nape? A rapier plunging towards Aithniel’s chest? A powerful, potent spell aimed for any Basin member? Or would he always be a bystander, a ruffian in the shadows, staring over the threshold and funneling bouts of curiosity and regret?

The latter thought was chased away almost immediately. Of all things, he wouldn’t fade into the dim lights or the murky shadows. The little demon was too determined, too resolute, too adamant to allow his soul to sink into webs or disappear into the horizon. He’d claw and rip and tear his way through the folds of the world, through the primrose paths, through the murky throes, to snag, clench, and grasp what he so ferociously sought.

His midnight wanderings brought him to the Steppe’s Tallsun escapades, where winter didn’t reign so far, slinking into melted puddles for a summer respite, and he chiseled across slush and droplets, allured and beguiled by a series of scents. One was instantly recognized, for it’d been Arwen, golden and pale, twin to Asch (who’d let him practice flames and burdens), but the smells intermingling amidst the air were bizarre and spellbinding. Like a sneaky demon, he followed after them, ignited and curious by the subtle trace of the unknown, by the notion of reuniting with the filly and perhaps exploiting play and adventure again. He traced and sketched, stealthy and furtive, pondering over how to surprise her: maybe how he’d shocked Essetia, with one loud, exuberant boom of his voice, or perhaps he’d simply slink up behind her and tap her shoulder, laugh and invite, coax, her into youthful diversions. The notions and thoughts added up to a wild cling of excitement, and as he bounded over the stretch of glacier walls, his narrowed gaze took in a baffling sight-

Because, there, fallen across the rock and rubble and ruin, was Arwen: bloodied, defeated, unmistakably dead.

All at once, his body revolted. Ebullience faltered and faded. He felt his heart sink and barely beat, drumming half-heartedly in his chest, devastated and confused. The echoes of memories captured and persuaded him into naught more than a blank slate, features fallen, dismayed, perplexed. The scrutinizing, curious side of him yearned to know how, why, what had she done to deserve such a cruel end, and the other portion of him, wild and untamed, sprinted towards her slain form.

He didn’t cry, he didn’t scream, he didn’t do anything else but get closer to her, peer at her departed frame (and therein, saw how badly she’d been mangled, no ounce of beauty left to savor, no essence left to appreciate), lower his maw to trace over the air of her mutilated cheek, give her a quiet reverie in hushed pinnacles and immolations. “Arwen…” Instead of tears or sadness, as he stared upon her shattered remnants, all that stirred within him thereafter was a tremendous, consuming anger, an unwinding, relentless fury, bound and scraping down his bones, through his veins, gnashing and grinding amidst his mind. Perhaps, only then, did his narrowed eyes glance at the surroundings, stare over the raw bits of ichor and sinew, sliding to pick upon a dragon and its boy (a pony, small and unrepentant), and he may not have even questioned the appearance had the other’s horn not been caked in blood. His jaw clenched, his wrath fumed and plumed and infernally stoked a wave of ire and contempt amidst his essence (and something even darker, nearly tangible danced and seethed over the tip of his tongue); the loathsome edge of his abhorrent passions kindled only one phrase, one growl, aimed at the only other inhabitant. “Did you do this?”

[Posted with permission from Frostie and Time! ^__^]