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02-15-2016, 06:55 PM
Aithniel was an eternal reminder of things he couldn’t have. She was a beacon, a symbol, of his undying yearnings, of his twisted, avaricious claims, of the way life failed to conform no matter the amount of determination clinging to one’s soul. He’d revered her as a friend, as a companion, as a part of the past that had been just, swift, and free. They, the three musketeers with their swords and muskets, with their bayonets and jubilant grins, could’ve had everything and anything they’d ever craved. They could’ve stalked the shadows for adventures. They could’ve slain monsters haunting borders and dreams. They could’ve been merciless little heathens, wreaking havoc and devastation wherever they’d traversed. They could’ve taken turns playing the gallant knights or the vicious blackguards, the piercing, striking villains and the merciful soldiers. But it’d been torn apart so easily, so readily – she left, Rikyn vanished, she was a child of a God, and he was nothing, no one, just one more vigilant party in the mountains, waiting for their time to strike. The scion didn’t feel as though he even knew his friends anymore. He had no idea of what Rikyn did amongst ruins and abominations. He had no recollection or notion of what Aithniel did as she wandered the vast heights or swallowing sand of the Throat. He knew his desires, his flaws, his virtues, his defects and pursuits, the thousand of little things in between; but naught about them anymore.
It almost broke his heart, to think, to believe, they’d become barely more than strangers.
The boy’s eyes never left hers – willing to detect something, anything, that meant they were still bonded by the times spent in snow and ice, by days lingering in lessons and moments spared amongst sandy dunes; snickers and glimmers, laughter and soullessness. They’d been callous, mercenary babes, owning barbarity and joviality, innocence and folly. He cherished all of those moments, he thought of them every day, he wished to bring them back no matter how often the Sun God’s words drummed against his head. He longed for the past when anger hadn’t erupted and drove agonizing wedges between them, when children hadn’t died and souls hadn’t fled and they could still be regarded as together; the ambitious little trio, meant for greatness, for opulence, for decadence, for strength and power.
But all she seemed to do was stare – befuddled, disbelieving. In him? In what used to be? His brow arched, quirking upward amidst the brooding, brewing silence, so hesitant and unsure in the quaking moments. He thought he heard an inflection, a delving of emotion as her lips curled over his name, as if it held more than just memories, as if there were still some ties amidst all the snags and snarls, and the prince leaned forward, lowering his maw to brush against hers. “I’m glad you’re well,” he said through their brief connection, through his gentle croon, through the wayward, Cheshire smile wound along his mouth, through the pieces of muck and fury so readily in supply the last time they’d spoken.
Then he pulled away as she explained her reasoning for coming – for Rikyn (and wasn’t it always the same, wasn’t that who she always chased and Erebos was somehow yards behind, struggling to keep up, struggling to understand why no one ever beckoned for him) and himself, to apologize, to offer sentiments from seasons before when they’d all unraveled. His gaze settled on her again, eyes narrowed, head tilted, wondering why something bristled and barbed at his heart, at his mind, why Orsino hissed and burned against the grain of his sentiments, why everything always led to some aspect of irritation and despair. Even now, he was useless. He hadn’t seen Rikyn since their vicious parting amongst the monsters, demons, and fallen Gods.
Before he could say anything, before he could offer, Ashamin (whom he’d forgotten was still lingering in the fold) spoke, funneling out his own thoughts of Rikyn – and the thorn suddenly felt enflamed, burning against his chest, along his thoughts, intertwining in vicious exasperation. Ashamin didn’t even know Rikyn, hadn’t seen the fortitude, the might, the compelling sway of his friend. The lad refrained from pinning his ears at the insults slung towards his companion, tucking away the bitterness, the rancor edges, for another time and place. If it laced over his features, only Aithniel would’ve been able to see it – the slight narrowing of his piercing eyes, the layers of wickedness building behind their blue depths, then disappearing altogether as he turned to address the Haruspex. “We all grew up together,” he bestowed the subtle, bare nuance of information with a half-smile, with an indentation of affability not quite there, not quite registering, not quite gathered. Then, he twisted back to the ivory flame, extending the mere granules he had to offer. “I haven’t seen him. He didn’t come back with me.” But Erebos, ever gracious, ever stalwart, ever dipped in the funnels of nefariousness and gallantry, polished over the hallowed vessels of his determination and struck. “I can go with you to find him, if you’d like.”
It almost broke his heart, to think, to believe, they’d become barely more than strangers.
The boy’s eyes never left hers – willing to detect something, anything, that meant they were still bonded by the times spent in snow and ice, by days lingering in lessons and moments spared amongst sandy dunes; snickers and glimmers, laughter and soullessness. They’d been callous, mercenary babes, owning barbarity and joviality, innocence and folly. He cherished all of those moments, he thought of them every day, he wished to bring them back no matter how often the Sun God’s words drummed against his head. He longed for the past when anger hadn’t erupted and drove agonizing wedges between them, when children hadn’t died and souls hadn’t fled and they could still be regarded as together; the ambitious little trio, meant for greatness, for opulence, for decadence, for strength and power.
But all she seemed to do was stare – befuddled, disbelieving. In him? In what used to be? His brow arched, quirking upward amidst the brooding, brewing silence, so hesitant and unsure in the quaking moments. He thought he heard an inflection, a delving of emotion as her lips curled over his name, as if it held more than just memories, as if there were still some ties amidst all the snags and snarls, and the prince leaned forward, lowering his maw to brush against hers. “I’m glad you’re well,” he said through their brief connection, through his gentle croon, through the wayward, Cheshire smile wound along his mouth, through the pieces of muck and fury so readily in supply the last time they’d spoken.
Then he pulled away as she explained her reasoning for coming – for Rikyn (and wasn’t it always the same, wasn’t that who she always chased and Erebos was somehow yards behind, struggling to keep up, struggling to understand why no one ever beckoned for him) and himself, to apologize, to offer sentiments from seasons before when they’d all unraveled. His gaze settled on her again, eyes narrowed, head tilted, wondering why something bristled and barbed at his heart, at his mind, why Orsino hissed and burned against the grain of his sentiments, why everything always led to some aspect of irritation and despair. Even now, he was useless. He hadn’t seen Rikyn since their vicious parting amongst the monsters, demons, and fallen Gods.
Before he could say anything, before he could offer, Ashamin (whom he’d forgotten was still lingering in the fold) spoke, funneling out his own thoughts of Rikyn – and the thorn suddenly felt enflamed, burning against his chest, along his thoughts, intertwining in vicious exasperation. Ashamin didn’t even know Rikyn, hadn’t seen the fortitude, the might, the compelling sway of his friend. The lad refrained from pinning his ears at the insults slung towards his companion, tucking away the bitterness, the rancor edges, for another time and place. If it laced over his features, only Aithniel would’ve been able to see it – the slight narrowing of his piercing eyes, the layers of wickedness building behind their blue depths, then disappearing altogether as he turned to address the Haruspex. “We all grew up together,” he bestowed the subtle, bare nuance of information with a half-smile, with an indentation of affability not quite there, not quite registering, not quite gathered. Then, he twisted back to the ivory flame, extending the mere granules he had to offer. “I haven’t seen him. He didn’t come back with me.” But Erebos, ever gracious, ever stalwart, ever dipped in the funnels of nefariousness and gallantry, polished over the hallowed vessels of his determination and struck. “I can go with you to find him, if you’d like.”
Erebos
clever got me this far - - then tricky got me in
@Aithniel @Ashamin
