“Do any of us know what we should do?” The King quirked a brow at his son, lordly and proud, pondering over the antics of his youngest and the brutal honesty tugging at his lungs, at his vocals, at his stance. He followed his son’s sight, to the unfreezing pool, to the skies, to the horizon, and felt every bit as small and insignificant again. He’d never truly comprehend or understand if he’d left any measure of impact on the mountains, on the landscapes, on the caverns, on the course of destruction, power, and mayhem, or if it had faded from him so long ago and he was too blind to see it was gone, disappeared, and evaporated, never enough. “So we simply try.” His vocals carried against, then along the waves, contemplations of the truth from experience, from the days where he’d been utterly inept at politics, striving to damage instead of maintain (and he nearly wished he could just go back to those days where everything seemed so utterly uncomplicated and effortless – sliding his blade into an enemy’s frame, whispering death and breathing disaster, condemnation, consigning himself to oblivion and watching the world fall apart beneath his feet). “When I was General, there were far more of us, and we were hungry for devastation.” They’d conspired, they’d pledged, they’d strived to unite for annihilation and disaster, and it’d been a beautiful thing when everything had aligned, and ridiculous when it’d fell apart. They could have been so much more, and perhaps, when Erebos strived, they’d find the niche again – he had the compassion, the charisma, and the ability to connect with others that the Reaper would never be able to utilize. What did they hunger for now? What did they yearn, what did they crave? Where were the adversaries to pitch over the sides of the cliffs? Maybe they’d been mired by peace and repose. Maybe they’d never had a prayer the moment alliances and armistices had been proposed. But his voice reigned again, supreme and warm for the advice his son wanted, assured, confident, every portion of the composed summit and peaks. “You can rebuild. You can recruit. You can train those willing to fight, to patrol, and to undermine an enemy’s abilities.” He’d stumble, but they all did, they all had. He’d rise too, because he was made of strength and vigor, determination and perseverance, and even on the darkest of days, the prince was a beacon of bright, unwavering prowess and fortitude. The sovereign smiled again, moved closer to press his maw against the boy’s forehead, a lingering touch for only the slightest of seconds (too much would signal death, even when all he wanted to do was embrace the only piece of family he had left). “I have faith in you. Have some in yourself.”