The miniature devil concentrated, was attentive, to his father’s notes, and were he a scholar he would’ve been writing them down in a great fury, page after page, even though he’d already known the synopsis would be short, curt, and to the point. He’d always tried; had been born to it, driven himself into alleys and shadows for a chance to snag a companion, peering into the depths of lagoons and Gods’ thresholds for the opportunity to clench power, but to believe it was that simple bothered, irked, irritated him a little. The impetuous side of his nature slid against the grain, and his thoughts were mercurial at best; frightened of the unknown, understanding what it meant to persevere when nothing else seemed to work, depending on others when he’d merely wanted to do everything himself. The rapture, the reverie, of his sire was captivating itself – here was a beast who’d been foretold to live his life alone, facing down the waves of death with absolute certainty, and carving a path for himself beside so many – no one was close, everyone kept at an arm’s length, but he still managed, he still attempted to defeat the impossible. Maybe it wasn’t enough for some, but it was enough for the boy to understand, to contemplate, to comprehend how to bear one’s heart and continue triumphing over ineptitude. Perhaps that’s where the boy had received his strength, power, and will, from the beating, dynamic heart of Deimos and everything he’d ever strived for – the child smiled, a full beacon of confidence and assurance because he loved and cared, and he knew his father did as well. “Then I shall try some more.” He winked, a reflection of the flames, of the chaos, of the stoked finality woven between their bones and veins, perfection dipped in too many flaws and errors. They might’ve been a portrait, a canvas, of what not to do or who to never be, but they still ventured and aimed, and the mere notion had to count for something. “But I’ll never be as good as you.” Erebos was allowed to worship his kin, his flesh and blood, even when he’d seen the infidel at his worst, and especially when he’d viewed him at his best. He grinned again, every inch the scion, the prince, as his dad brushed him lightly, the barest embrace, pondering when and where the road would take them, feeling younger than he ever had before. He was bound to trip and falter along the unknown, but it was part of the journey, and even Orsino, savage, sinister, Lilliputian monster, could nod at the perception. Maybe that was all he’d needed – reassurance beyond the apprehension, a scythe in his corner, a heathen coated in the same vigilance and violence as he, constantly chasing, aspiring, for one more soulless rampage. 

Erebos

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