EREBOS

Perhaps he placed too much on trust and convictions. Perhaps he wanted too many things all at once, and asking, yearning, pleading for confidence, reliance, and assurance in his capabilities, that he could protect them, guide them, teach them, restore them, was overwhelming. Perhaps it was just the way some things were – the Basin forever harbored the chilling harpooners, more eager to fight amongst themselves than an enemy. History repeated itself through its cold, glacial generations.
 
But he aspired for them to be different, an alteration from the past, a chiming echo in chronicles of failed conquests. They could be more than a collection of assembled warriors. They could be more than wicked, conniving souls. They could be the protection, the brutality, the swords in a legion of might and power, dominance over each and every land, an empire to be feared again.
 
You’re still wounded too easily, was Orsino’s response through the gloom and haze, a sharpened glare sent to the boy, blunt poignancy. How was the kitsune supposed to harden a youth who’d already seen so much, who’d already met death, who’d already faltered and stumbled and crumbled his way into the ground?
 
Because I care? the prince offered, staring into the mist, watching as Weaver approached. He’d been born from a nonchalant King and a loving scholar, and maybe all the compassion his sire rarely showed was now embedded in Erebos’ heart, overwhelming when the rest of the world never bothered. The fox didn’t say anything else.
 
The skirmish loomed, silent, intoxicating. Even in the cascading rain, he sensed Weaver’s inquiry, her questions, her deliberations, and all he did in return was watch, wait, and grin. He’d forbear the world for them, and they didn’t know, wouldn’t be able to see until his soul was splintered and shattered on the rocks: ready for the pain, the anguish, and the torment.
 
Erebos would’ve enjoyed conversing with her, he mused as his muscles kindled, as his brain schemed, as his body became fervent for the impending skirmish. He would’ve liked to have gestured to her wings and spoke of his admiration for them, asked her about flying and what it was like to see the world.
 
But the rain fell into his eyes, and Orsino was muttering something about idiots, and as he tried to shake the droplets from his sight she approached alongside his left, all force and tenacity. He attempted an abrupt shift to the right, aiming to be quicker, faster, and lighter, pressing the agility his mother had granted him into the muck and mire, but it wasn’t enough.
 
Her kick landed directly on his left haunch, searing and scorching for a brief moment, as if fire licked and seared across his flesh, a bruising, smarting demolition – and he gritted his teeth, offered no response except for the glint of his raised lips and a snort of irritation, bearing it all so a student could become a master.
 
Swiftly, because his front end hadn’t received a potent punch, he tried to swivel back towards the left, intending to brandish a snag, a snare, a bite of his teeth along her hind (perhaps on her croup or her dock, using height to his advantage). It’d been on pure instinct, a driving force coiled within his mind, from days spent on the unfreezing lake, striking at imaginary monsters and intangible enemies. Orsino uttered naught, staring out into the misty, foggy void, wondering about the nature of valor.

[1/3. 579 words.
* Erebos tries to get out of Weaver’s way by shifting to the right, but he’s still not fast enough, and gets a nice bruise along his left haunch.
* In retaliation, he swings back to the left, and tries to bite down along Weaver’s hind end, aiming for her croup or dock.]