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Lilliputian infidel and miniscule barbarian maneuvered and stoked the fibers of his potency amidst the shepherd grasses and stone rubble, carefully, delicately, attempting to remember the fallacies that had forced his flames to burn. There’d been anger, raw and blunt, coarse and harsh, callous and enduring, fanning and unwinding until all he’d seen, all he’d felt, was the immense contempt, the intense loathing, of failure and defeat. The little prince’s senses had been measured in a sliding scale of control, of unease when the inferno scorched a friend, and then settled somewhere into thoughts of prowess, of potential, of knowing deep within his soul he contained some assemblage of strength and supremacy. In his overambitious, grasping, clenching mind, infamy and power laced conquering drums and wove immoral actions, stirred unholy designs and nefarious desires, toppling empires and rich sovereigns. He could be anything he wanted to be, if he honed his skill, if he triumphed over the delicate and the inept, if he traipsed and gleamed and prospered under the wayward sun and the hostile moon. Erebos’ dreams were wide and encompassing, broadened and heightened by the slight of a tiny ember, by the touch of a scalding coal, and he deigned to augment, to increase, the heartless wake of his abilities. So no sooner had he wandered from the Ancient Rotunda and its ruins, its myths, its legends and secrets, did he traverse into the earnest, yielding Thistle Meadow, and select a patch of growth near the winding stream.
Like a tiny master of secrets, a miniature Machiavelli, the blue prince nestled and folded his forelegs beneath his chest, curling himself into a small, unseen pocket, hidden and concealed to unearth his current mission. His temple, his mind, his sentiments yearned to replicate the actions of the passing day, and without lessons, without informing neither parent or any other supervising attendant, he was content to partake in the enigmatic shuffle of his own means. The only question left was, simply, clearly, how?
The first, and only, time the fires had appeared, bright, luminescent, coiling, had been out of ire and shame. Neither were emotions he currently felt, so he tilted his crown and frowned, then gestured wildly with his head, opening his maw to pretend his breath would shoot out terrible, terrifying fervency and set the grass ablaze. When naught happened, he thought of brutality, of savagery, of sinister acts that stirred and ignited his hatred, his wrath, his undying hostility. The only thing beyond failure, because the scion had no urgency to relive that particular experience, kindling his flesh, his veins, his emotions, was the memory of Aithniel, of Zikar’s delusions, of promises and predilections to remove her precious wings. He choked on the maddening bile, on the insurgency coasting through his wake, on the bestial shades turning his vision into infernal hues and conjuring all his defenses of her person (because he hadn’t seen her in so long – did she still have them? Was she still well? Was she still whole?). It flowed, rampant and rebellious, along his core and through his chest, with one singular touch of his lips upon a single blade of grass, a kiss, a caress, of the determined, of the bestial, of the wicked and depraved, he watched as it burst into flame.
@[Aithniel]
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