What could’ve been amusing, diverting, was left in shambles on a knife’s edge of duplicity and shadows. They played a furtive game now, battling wits and distortions with callous armor and nothingness in between. Erebos nearly snorted at the child’s first response (how clever Orsino noted, rolling his eyes), but noted the hidden decibels and the chilling composition for what it was. The youth had his secrets, motives, plans, and goals, or merely naught at all, and didn’t plan to share any with the prince. It was a dulling notion, and the sentiment drained him of any foolhardy, reckless exuberance. His eyes lost their curious, inquisitive rapture, settling for the rocky shoal or the endless waves rolling towards his hooves, interest no longer compelled when the other didn’t want to share in the mirth and sport. Maybe the boy didn’t have any goals, any dreams, any aspirations for the future, merely existed on the earth, roaming from one land to the next – letting the world take him by surprise or oblivion. While Erebos believed it was a waste (there were so many things to do, to see, to unravel) to wander from ruin to ruin with no ambitions, no plots, no feral intentions, they were all permitted their own ways of life. Somehow, someway, the other would end up shuffling towards his fortune or failure. The path, the arrival, the twists and turns, would be the surprise and mystery, intertwined, entangled, and unknown until it hit him in the face.
 
He grunted mildly in response to the threat of blown brains and subtle grins, far more intrigued and interested in the child’s demeanor towards his father (or the ghostly, eerie image orchestrated on darkened strings and wily threads). The soldier watched closely at the change; very subtle, barely a reconstruction of features at all, except for the quiet, drawn admittance of the shared heritage. Perhaps he was ashamed. Perhaps he was rueful. Perhaps he was angry. Erebos couldn’t decide and the boy gave nothing away, too much like a stone, like a rock, all marble columns and skull features. He wondered, very briefly, what it would be like to hide from who you were and where you’d come from. He’d never thought of committing the act – he’d always been proud of the snow, of the ice, of the dangerous, lurking caverns, of the poignant, haunting summits, of his mother, of his father. Vocals clung to the waves, clear and bright, not sullen, not lurking, rising to the unsaid challenge. “I was curious,” he proffered for reasons (and now he knew there were more and more cretins and creatures spawn from the blood of Confutatis; as if she were reigning again, just in a different fashion, claws still dragging through kingdoms and realms). “You look a lot like him.” The prince smiled then, small and singular, hiding a chuckle clinging to his throat. “I met him once,” he shrugged, then bade Orsino to cease the magic, watching as the image flickered away to bits and pieces of nothing. 

Erebos

i have nothing, but then the have is not as good as the want