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The prince watched his fire-forged friend carefully, scrutinizing miniscule movements and tangible exchanges. He saw a smirk claw unbidden along the others’ mouth, entangling in a nest of intrigue and interest, and the boy’s brow arched again, pondering over the possibilities of his story being just one of many. He’d known the Colossus had machinated other ridiculous misdeeds and sins; stolen from one more child, taken from an infant, absconded with anything and everything he wanted because he was naught more than a brute, a menace (and the scion wanted to become one too – a cretin for a cretin, a fiend for a fiend). There must have been other tales of tortured souls and ruined whims, mercurial pursuits from a demon who used force, who used size, who used Goliath mentality to snag and steal from the innocent, from the inept. But Volterra spoke, knowing who it was – and he’d become one more of snares, traps, and deceitful measures, he’d become part of Erebos’ calculations – the lad could feel Orsino’s sibilance through their connection, an unwavering multitude of the disastrous and the contorted, one distortion closer to an ambition satisfied. But he craved more, his nefarious heart bending and breaking, choking and smothering, body avaricious and covetous, acquisitive and mercenary, claiming and yearning and twisting and annihilating, ghosting for the truth, for justice, for revenge: all so close and yet so far. His voice smoothed over the slithering proportions of wave and surf, fanning amidst the details, the particulars, of this timely meeting. “It wasn’t enough.” The latter was the truth immersed in all the unwinding circumstances – it hadn’t been enough to lacerate sinew and flesh. He craved disaster and ruin upon the painted devil. He yearned for catastrophe and calamity upon his enemy. He longed for the others’ life to be abolished and decayed, withered and torn, in shambles, in pieces, in broken, depilated shards. It wouldn’t bring Arwen back, but it could satisfy the deep, dark loathing swallowing his soul, or merely awaken more. The future had yet to be cast. He narrowed his eyes and stared at the sea, coiling his features back to Volterra’s in a striking semblance of regal fortitude, determined cataclysm in the form of a slender boy. “I won’t be satisfied until he’s destroyed.” His speech ended on a smirk, on a snicker, on a devilish, impish smile, as if he didn’t care at all who heard it. The declaration was a terrible, abominable truth – and if the Colossus knew he was coming for him, then so be it. He’d long since cast his fortune the day he murdered the filly in gold.
Would you like to join me in the hunt? He almost asked.
Their attentions diverted for a span, back to homes instead of revenge, back to lands and empires and sovereigns instead of a cycle of merciless designs. Erebos wasn’t surprised to know Volterra had heard of the Aurora Basin – hadn’t everyone? Weren’t they full of legends and strife? Weren’t they all harbingers of destruction and rapture? Weren’t they all someone else’s ghosts, alive and writhing, eerie and unearthly? He wanted to piece together what Volterra had heard, what he claimed, which myth fell where, what secrets had been shared, what he could correct from some ineffectual claim, but he remained silent, steady, and sure, one more beacon of ice and rime. The youth tilted his head in an air of curiosity, gaze glancing to the others’ brow at his mention at a lack of a sword or rapier – and shrugged it off, face rendered in a display of nonchalance. Erebos had yet to assign hate to lumps of species or beasts – his abhorrence, his vehemence, was reserved only for those who had bristled, who had condemned, who had dared to warrant his foul, nefarious thoughts. Volterra was not among them. As far as he knew, the black beast hadn’t committed a crime upon his family, herd, or friends. He hadn’t consigned a fellow patriot to oblivion. In fact, he’d never even heard of the other boy until now. Easygoing and amiable, affable and generous, swinging from resolute, adamant lad to generous, charismatic colt, he proffered his sentiments without malice, without barbarity, grin neatly in place all over again. “Oh, you should come sometime! I could bring you. I doubt anyone would mind.”
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[P] Blaze rage red is the color of youth
