There was no strength in him now, no virility, no brawn, no might, no fortitude. Exhaustion reeled and clawed over his skull, his mind, until his head was filled with nothing but anguish and a strange, floating fog; mulling over what it meant to be weak. He never thought himself delicate, fragile, or vulnerable, never truly immersed himself amidst indignity and disgrace, but it pummeled him so mercilessly now, rasping, tearing, clawing – and he felt the ache of scorn past all the broken parts of his frame, the taste of bitterness slide over his mouth and down his throat – because everything always seemed to amount to nothing. He’d always cherished his resolution, cultivated and triggered and incensed the bloody revolutions screeching amidst his sentiments, but they’d been so callously struck down, so soullessly torn apart, and he didn’t know where they’d gone; vanished and vanquished just as easily as his body. The little beast thought he’d been a part of Hell before, one more demon and infidel taken from the Mephistophelean rites and pedestals, another cretin in the making, another shard intending to break apart his enemies. What a glorious thing to have been: a harpoon, a sword, a cutlass, a rapier, forged in steel and determination, in death and desecration, in unholy frames and venomous, vehement barbs – but the Haruspex had proven to him that he was nothing, no more than a speck of dust, no more than a grain of sand. The truth struck him terribly, digging down into his heart, into his lungs, into his soul and plucking at all those strings of anarchy until they simply died down, became quiet shards and fragments. Perhaps he’d never honor the Sun God and all his wisdom (was this what he’d meant, in those curling veins of fire and sagacity, that the boy would have to be more than just power – because even that faded, even that could be pierced and popped and scalded?). Perhaps he’d never avenge Arwen and all her shy smiles and furtive whims. Perhaps he’d never annihilate his enemies. Perhaps this was Fate’s way of assuring the lad, the youth, the scion, that he no matter how hard he tried, no matter how many miles he wandered, no matter how many schemes he concocted, he’d always amount to naught in the end. The boy who’d built his temple on fires and ferocity, on blazes and barbarity, watched himself, his goals, his aspirations, become ash and soot.

Like a fading ember, he collapsed upon the ground, barely registering Ashamin’s words through the seething cloud hovering through his membrane. His vision swam, flickering, dying images of puddles and ruin, abominations and deceit, the lacquered world where he’d finally tumbled from his pier, until he closed his eyes and listened to the sullen sound of the fading rain. I am fine, some echo said, repeating in an odd, ashamed refrain, as if the voice had anything to be remorseful and penitent about – it’d been the Lilliputian demon and his ambition for greatness, for ichor, for damnation that had caused the entire fray – and Orsino had enough sense to simply remain eerily, utterly silent, laying his head on his bonded’s front hooves. I am sorry, it said through the mist, and Erebos, had he been capable, would have snorted, would have laughed, would have darkly courted some whispering courtyard in hell and buried himself in it. 

But then another’s voice ricocheted, cutting through the dull, throbbing void, the listless, languid din, and all he could do was shield his face from hers, brushing it against the damp, sodden ground, searching for a way to remain hidden from her stare, from her snare. The prince didn’t want anyone else to see the weakened, fragile fool he’d become, shackled and bleeding, defeated and exhausted, nothing, nothing, nothing. He was supposed to be the trickster, the cretin, the gallant, intrepid youth battling storm after storm, assailing foe after foe, cackling at jokes and cajoling others to join his makeshift fray – he was supposed to be abhorrence and vengeance, vehemence and violence, destiny on his shoulders and strength in his muscles; not this broken, pathetic little child. His lips maneuvered in silent prayer, begging her not to see his crumpled frame, his feeble drained figure, hoping she wouldn’t find him in all the darkness, in all the oblivion, turning his head away from her voice, too afraid to search for her in the shrouds, in the veils of his blighted stars. Had he had the power, he might have even fled, running away from the scorn, the stupidity, the idiocy consuming the strained, taut moments. Please don’t see me like this, he pleaded through the throng; but he felt Orsino shake his head against his leg, and her melody billowed thereafter; too late. Ashamin’s companion had summoned her, had known the picture of loss and defeat, had called her to see what had become of her fellow mischief maker, and some part of him knew he’d never be the same again in her eyes.

He still couldn’t look at her, couldn’t turn his frame towards where she likely stood, gazing down at him in disbelief, wonder, or disappointment. He hoped it wasn’t the latter, because he already couldn’t forgive himself, and if he somehow managed to disenchant her too…the thought died off on a croak, on a slashed spark of dismay, attempting to stop her from pending rituals. “Enna, don’t-“ The lad heard her fall next to him, felt the rush of warmth of her figure nestled near his, listened to the enchanting lull of her voice, I’m here, she said, and he was twisted in being grateful, being content, being happy that she was at his side, and ashamed, sheepish, mortified she’d become part of his cycle of weakness. He thought to fight against the tempest of magic flooding his senses, to force it away from his structure, from his sentiments; to not be mended at all, for he’d attacked one of his own, for he’d been beaten and trounced and he was receiving his just desserts. “I deserved it,” he muttered through his lips, too tired, too drained, too lifeless to do anything but be entranced, beguiled, and allured by the sweeping hands of time; just as he’d been intoxicated by her those seasons before, laughing at the way she stomped amongst the Threshold, queen of thorns and barbs, stinging and sweet all at once. A sigh trickled along his mouth, billowed through the rain and torment, allowing the agony to pass away, the wounds to heal, the open lacerations on his shoulder stitching back together as if naught had happened at all. 

He could feel her worry and he hated himself for it all over again, twisting his head around to stare at her, to feel the light kiss placed on his crown (it felt broken and loose, might discarded, fallen somewhere amidst the rain and torture), to extend his maw against hers in a show of his existence, tangibility. The boy lowered his mouth to her shoulder, pressed it close, murmuring the weight of his actions across her skin, “I was stupid.” I still am, he wanted to say, but he just stayed bowed against her, hiding all over again; cowardly, not daring to stare at Ashamin again, not daring to face any more of the truth.