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The quiet interludes of the Deep Forest left him insatiably curious, embarking and endeavoring and craving, a harpooned, avaricious cretin, wandering deeper into the morning snippets and the covetous copse. Had he not been within the boundaries after the Raven’s intriguing anomalies, he wouldn’t have been in the midst and mist at all, leaping and soaring into other ramparts and enigmas, but the tremor of a familiar scent, Aithniel surged into his psyche – tracing over her presence, her being, fluttering and chasing the wind. Perhaps he wanted to sketch over their old patterns, invite her to another grand adventure, infiltrate one more herd under guises of fake names and masquerading tales, yearning for yesteryear’s escapades, hoping, praying, seeking out guidance from the folds of her disappearance. Too immersed, too occupied, by the notion of finding her, of having one more conversation of strength, of power, of well-wishes and hopes and dreams, he didn’t notice the alarming quiet, the strange, apprehensive coil curled amidst the trees. Only as he continued wandering, only as he manifested glory in the thoughts and sanction of the girl’s appearance (there, surely her, a bright glimmer of gold and ivory in the blinding slate of trees), did he realize what he’d nearly stumbled into.
A dragon, massive and unwinding, a magnificent beast he thought that lurked between the Throat’s cliffs, that flew across valleys and breathed fire across empires and sovereigns, was sunken, collapsed, in between the folds of clearings. What had felled such a strong creature? What had caused its collapse (was there a devilish barb out there, mightier than this behemoth?)? What had seized its strength? The little scion, the brave prince, was frozen and paralyzed with sudden convolutions: eyes widened, features audacious and emboldened, heart pounding, gallant strides incapable of any more movement. He couldn’t reach across the void, odd, alarming, but could see beyond the realm, watch the motion and upheaval of others; blessed, anointed, consecrated creatures, all of them brilliant and christened (the girl with no name, sometimes a raven, sometimes pronged, his friend, a filly on fire, two others manifested in regality, in piety). Never had he felt so lowly, so out of place, so out of touch – with nothing to offer, nothing to bestow. He could only be a witness as they flickered and sparked in their attempts to assuage the monster, the demon, the dragon, staring along the veil. Erebos wanted to shout something, proffer encouragement, insight an idea, provoke assistance, but naught flowed, and he maneuvered towards the Doctor and his companion, suddenly aware for all of his gifts, for all of his talents, there were some beings he wouldn’t be able to match. Sometimes a prince was just a prince, a head with an empty, heavy crown.
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