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If his father wasn’t so strong, so dangerous, so intimidating, his question and mere confession might have been heartbreaking. The child, who’d found it so easy, so delightful, to make companions and to forge alliances, never truly imagined how those powerful nuances of camaraderie might have been lost on his sire, incapable, unreachable, and unattainable. Erebos wasn’t confined to his invocations or enchantments (if anything, he pulled and tugged at them until they scorched along his frame and he felt truly potent), but the Reaper, with a constant threat of death looming at his embrace, at his touch, at his stroke, had blended seamlessly into the shadows. The darkness didn’t bite, didn’t fray, didn’t wither in his presence – and so, he’d forged himself into those daunting, specious, soulless whims, where nothing and no one was hurt.
Then, how much would it take to get him to come out of his shell?
The colt pondered, furrowed his brow, pushed his lips together and ignored the ring of Orsino’s chuckling. The scion was always bold, always ebullient, always full of heart and might and distinction – but Deimos, with his dangerous edges, with his mired thoughts, with his cold, indifferent reticence…was not. Perhaps they were both a little adrift on how to aspire the Lord’s companionship woes, but the boy was a determined, stalwart sort, and had no qualms or limits on assisting his father. “Hm. Well.” His voice wandered in and out, puzzling over the mounting conundrum. The vivid slate of blue, much like his mother’s, pulsed back to another matching set, hoping to achieve their miniscule goals. “I always find things to talk about!” Maybe Deimos could suddenly descend into the art of conversation? Erebos had his doubts, but he also contained adamant wishes for his sire. One so powerful could overcome their flaws. “Sometimes we talk about magic – I like to show them my skills…,” he trailed off suddenly, blanching and freezing because Deimos’ providing his necromancy wouldn’t lead to friends - “Or what they’re going to do in their lives, what they hope to achieve?” He openly stared at the King now, realizing why this seemed so much harder than necessary. What would he reveal to anyone or anything? That he wanted the Basin to reign supreme above all others? That he wanted to condemn the weak and slaughter the foolish? That’d be a great conversation starter. The boy held back a sigh, then barreled into conveying another string of potential. “I might ask them how they’re doing! If they’re in good health?” The last ended on a wink, then a wince, because this sudden pursuit was going in a sad, enduring spiral of emptiness and dismal hope.
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