EREBOS

Traces of his nefarious essence brewed and congealed, fastened over the facets of a long lineage of traced savagery, sinister little snippets coiling and unfettered, running over the length of his spine and the curl of his smile. Manifestations of barbaric compositions dappled over the brilliant, vivid rays of his gaze, like harpoons, like daggers, like gathered devils smoking the depths of absolution: because it was almost amusing, almost triumphant, to display the merits of his eminence in front of one who hadn’t been chosen. He’d been in her position many times, grinding away at potent dreams and incandescent aspirations until they blinded him from the inside out, until worthlessness seemed to be the only future, the only augured, foretold notes, until he’d become one of the assimilated brethren at arms, given alms for his determination. He could gloat in her presence, he could rejoice, he could revel, he could dance and sway and preen in the midst of her failures, at the conviction of her errors, because Orsino remained at his feet, an emblem of Erebos’ strength, resolution, and fire, and not at hers. He had won something, and she hadn’t.

But was it worth it? He could press, he could fissure, he could taunt and torment, but would that make him any better than the other monsters lurking in the midst? Than the other demons waiting in the wings?

His father never did any of those things – never had to. His reputation preceded him. His title sank into scythes. His namesake delivered chills or indifference.

Perhaps Erebos could be better than them – the world, the realm, the empires - through sheer simplicity. He didn’t need to boast. He didn’t need to swagger, crow, or inflate with pride. The evidence of his prowess was nestled in the features of a fox, in the developing sway of his growth, in the promising malice lurking beneath the surface of his handsome features and his gallant brow. So, he didn’t leer, he didn’t snare, he didn’t entangle, and just breathed a sense of calm, a sense of nonchalance, of sense of regality in the seething opus of the Deep Forest, in the loathsome grasp of devils and saints, pouring out niceties in carefully contorted frames and syllables. Somewhere, perhaps amidst their connection, he felt Orsino laugh.

But she’d asked after all. He might as well give her the answers she sought. His brow arched, his grin inclined into a more boyish decree, indulgent and winsome, charitable and charismatic, almost seraphic in the glowing, gleaming lapse of sunshine and veils. “Yes – his name is Orsino. He’s a kitsune.” A fond smile drew over his lips, along his teeth, gazing wistfully upon the young, sleek, black fox, and all the anarchy boiling between the two. His stare moved carefully back to hers, head tilting in fractional measures, constantly curious and inquisitive, absorbing every sight, every sound, every aspect of Auriel, painting a picture of her hankerings (the need for one of those things), wondering how much further she dared to go for something she wanted, something she craved. And in the depths of pangs and purposes, hunger and contentment, he pondered how far he’d go. “I had to try a couple times. Once, I had to cook meals for an enormous turkey!” He laughed, magnetic and exuberant, before constructing his own queries for her. “How many times have you tried? You can’t give up on your dreams, you know.”

@[Auriel]