He’d been mistaken somewhere – there was an error, a miscalculation, because the moment the words had slipped past his tongue she’d admitted she’d tried - and he felt monstrously foolish. Trying had always been his anthem: if he failed, he attempted again and again and again until his soul was buried, until his body was withered, until his heart was decayed. It was a part of his anatomy, a contortion of his marrow, to push against the grain, to dig into the soil, to pulse and pervade all the intrepid determination coiled amidst his blood, and perhaps he’d harpooned too far now, made her believe she hadn’t done enough. The youth had only wished for something more, for her, for the light to shine back in her eyes, for her son to appear over the horizon, freshly summoned, beckoned from the shadows, reappearing the way dozens had before him – no consequences, only gallantry, pleasantries, and laughter. Instead, they altered course again, drifted down the road of rubble and ruin, and he shook his head, stared out over the denizens of the shifting water, the lost rhapsody, the valorous meanings struck down, blow for blow. Lord, he was so tired of the disconnect, the way they confounded one another, befuddled, bewildered, and as she spoke, as she quivered, as she shook, he just remained there, lost for words, measured by the strength of his stoic silence. They used to have an understanding, cravers of mischief and rebellion, musing on the intricacies of devilry and impishness, but somewhere along the way they’d cracked and fissured, and he’d tried (there was that word again, still there, resonant and bleeding) to understand. Perhaps the lines had been blurred by too many other events – loss and pain, sorrow and anguish, lines bending in alternate routes and directions, paths curving back upon themselves too soon or too late. When others disappeared around him, he searched, he looked, he craved – sometimes they were found, sometimes they’d wandered off into the midst and there was nothing else he could do (look ahead, the Sun God had said); but this was her son.
 
He didn’t know what to say. She didn’t want his fortitude, his might, his endurance, his perseverance. She didn’t yearn to hear of one more exultant phrase, one more precise, reverential pledge. He’ll come back, he longed to promise, but it’d be empty and unknown, feral and defeated, like so many other notions he’d shouted into the air, exposed for their indulgence, for their avarice, for their sedition. The shame flickered through his vessel, curved and carved its own blistering sentiments, scorched, urged, and seared flesh, bone, along its maker. So his jaw tightened, his brow furrowed, his eyes narrowed, and he gave one brief look to her, utterly confused and a bit helpless, before shifting his gaze to the sand, to the soil, to the dirt.
 
Erebos watched her companion out of the corner of his eye though, and his bonded beasts did the same – Enyo, with her newness, with her soft, delicate feathers and curious eyes, and Orsino, with his bestial nature, coiled within their master’s mind and resumed there place within – timeless and crafty. Her laughter surprised him again though, for he presumed it was adrift, lost at sea the way they seemed to be, disunited and discordant; his stare glanced towards hers, ears flicked along her answer, and the corner of his mouth tucked upward for an instant, a ginger reunion and truce. At the very least, he can help with the next iteration of words, and he rose, power, undulating precision and devastation in the ripple of his muscles, in the keen depths of his stretch – smirking briefly to the sable kitsune, in on his own joke. “Orsino can show him how to hunt,” he offered, the Cheshire grin finding its way home, not glancing back to watch the fox sneer with disdain.