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The scion was met with fire – pure, brilliant fire, embers and ashes and flames, crashing and whirling and curling all around him. Still very much a boy, he revered the blistering, scorching distortions, eyes wide and awed all over again as the tender blaze ignited and unfurled, and the God within presided, granting, bestowing, and querying. Blinded by the art of magnificence, by the sheer conflagration of power, the state of his ambition was rendered mute for a few, scarce moments while he rebuilt his boldness. Perhaps even Orsino, silent and vigil, retained absolute quiet, tucked between his legs in a pile of sable fur and nonchalant reflection. As daring renewed, his gallant little heart reaching and searching for the narrow bits of pride, audacity, and wit, he rose steadily from the ground, staring at the incensed puddle, at the ramparts of effervescent dominance and supremacy (something he craved, but couldn’t touch, couldn’t have, couldn’t possibly begin to understand). The youth carved his form into one more bow in the presence of the celestial being, in the reverence of the sun and its holy rule, posturing politeness through the stream of gilded torrents and idle fortifications. “Thank you, and you’re welcome.” Erebos hadn’t realized he’d even been noticed amongst the wild throng intertwined throughout the Flats, but perhaps the Sun possessed even greater sovereignty than he realized (how wonderful it must have been to see all, know all, and conquer all).
But the questions sanctioned to his frame were chilling and barbaric, because the deity must have realized, must have felt, must have conjured the notion of understanding – witnessed the sinister outlook, foreshadowing, augured, veiled retaliation of the colt before him. Desperation and vengeance clawed along the boy’s ribs, intertwined past his heart, seared and simmered and seethed with a keen, molten ambience, glowing past all the stalwart notions and the valorous sentiments, turning and twisting into nefarious, unholy armaments. The avaricious plume bloomed within him, wild and untamed, uncoiling at the vicious, vehement thorns nestled within his throat: he was invigorated by the annals, by the roots, by the segments of requital, and he couldn’t lie to the beast who’d hoped to aid him in moving forward. The prince’s eyes pierced back onto the folded wings of the God, upon the golden helm, upon the righteous peaks and the illustrious stance, posturing honesty where there was naught else to warrant. “I’m not sure.” His gaze fell away, along the melted, consumed ashes, across the churning lava, before he was caught in the rapture again, lost and confused, befuddled and rattled. “I know I can’t bring Arwen back – but I also can’t let him get away with it.” Then, he posed a query of his own, trying, attempting, to surmise an answer from the folds of foils and debacles, wondering how far he’d go, pondering when and how he’d be consumed by the threads and cycles of revenge. “Is that wrong?” Should he be doing something else to bring down the foe, the enemy, the Colossus with his dragons, with his stolen items, with his injustice and false creeds? Was he meant to simply stand aside, like so many before him, remain utterly indifferent and reticence as the world moved on, as strangers were allowed to snatch artifacts and lives?
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[O] I am the fire [Quest Turn-In - Sun]
