The bitterness clawed at his flesh, tore him inside out. He could barely see her uncertain smile, her ambiguous grin; too shambled, too messy, too shattered. Piece by piece, he was being tightly sewn and woven again into layers of brutality and depravity; the boy could feel them stretching over his sinew, pressing at his skin, elongating and expanding over his form until all he wore was a veil, a mask, of anger and rancor. He was indignation and malice, acrimony and enmity, a potent, stark contrast of vitriol and hatred; where he’d been gallant before, only abhorrence showed – and though it wasn’t too her, never to her, his valorous image couldn’t hold, couldn’t stand, beneath the columns of shadows, the dusky scars her attacker had left behind. The tarnished, seething portion of his eyes reflected the hollows, the broken, hallowed vessels, ears listening, mind reeling, everything too close to home, everything laid out like chiseled contortions of iron and rust, chained against his neck, choking, suffocating him. It was beyond rage and ruin, abominations and treachery; all ferocity, coiled and snaking, an image of his father on the battlefield, a silent, fuming mess clambering to understand, to comprehend, why the world seemed doomed on repeating itself, and how he tried, strived, for things so far out of reach. You’re here, she whispered into the brushes and strokes of death, as if another hadn’t tried to annihilate her, as if he, this stupid, stupid little prince had any sense of worth to her. Doesn’t that count for at least something? How could it, he wanted to say to her. He yearned to grind the phrase, the query, between his teeth and growl, shake the cave with the force of his menace, but instead, his eyes focused on hers, deep, piercing portions where there was once light and curiosity, shaking his head in refusal. "It's not enough."
 
The youth hoped, the warrior yearned, the beast waited for something – a name, a title, a description, a piece of truth sketched between the schisms of force and trauma. His eyes went back over her canvas, her physique, her outline fractured by the coils of lava, by the junctures of newly founded marks; reminders to him, to her, that she’d been brutalized, that she’d nearly been massacred, for nothing. The scion’s heart lurched and then clenched again, in between another bout of tears and another round of contempt; and she only answered with I don’t know.
 
Erebos’ jaw clenched, holding back the frustration, the annihilation he yearned to promise her. But she continued, quiet, questioning, querying everything he’d ever known, ever strived for. Why couldn’t she understand what he wanted to do? What he had to do? The very core of his being hankered, coveted, for naught else but the relish, the taste, of destruction to this foreign enemy, and she refused to give it to him. Then, she seemed to scoff at him, like he was foolish, like he was nothing, like he was too stupid, too young, too daft, like he couldn’t have ever completed or accomplished this task despite all his acrimonious desires. He wanted to shout. He wanted to scream. He wanted to rage against the walls and scorch the halls, become a towering, infernal beast with naught to lose – rampaging, clawing, swarming through the streets with sword outstretched and wrath unleashed. Maybe then she’d see. Maybe then she’d believe. Instead, the darker, scheming portion of his membrane, of his skull, rattled, checked against the tethers, against the boundaries, against the menace clinging, vibrating, pervading off his bones. His voice was resolute, strong, vibrant with ire and fire, stare boring into hers as she shrugged him off, as she thought he was incapable. He wasn’t sure what hurt more. "It would mean he didn't get away with it. It would mean he'd be punished for his crimes, for his actions. It would mean someone would be held accountable for their cruelty." He practically shook with his fury, muscles curled, taut, clenched, and fervent for a fray she wasn’t giving him. "Why shouldn't there be consequences for his behavior? Why should anyone be allowed to corrupt, damage, and destroy everything?" Then, he leaned closer, until his mouth was nearly pressed against her ear, a whisper, a noxious, nefarious blend of all those vengeful things he stood for (ringing with reprisal, with revenge, with retaliation). "He should pay."
 
He didn’t care what happened to him. It was never a thought, never a notion, in the annals and canals of his Machiavellian mind. It was a desperate shift of honor, of valor, of bravery, boldness, and audacity, constantly throwing himself into a realm that forgot heroes and obliged villains. His heart and soul had always been reserved for his companions – those cherished, those beloved – and each wound, each scar, earned for them was nothing. The boy pulled away from her though, suddenly too close, but eyes never leaving, never drifting to the floor or to the walls, centered entirely on her essence, on her being, on her existence. "There should be some justice in this world. If no one else wants to bother, then I'll certainly try. I'll always try for my friends." Erebos even tilted his head, confused, bewildered, as to why she couldn’t comprehend the way he acted, the whys – she’d known how he’d grown, how he’d remembered. Then, as she pressed against him, as he showed him that she was still there (but perhaps, not quite whole), he listened to her question, to the matters of enough – and he didn’t respond. The room fell silent with the echoes of his refusal – because she could’ve been dead, and someone was still out there, alive and well, who deserved atrocities and malevolence. 

enna & erebos

for you, just you