He couldn’t sleep – the void was too strong, swallowing him whole, and he saw too many facets, heard too many things, and dreamed too many ghastly contortions. His soldiers bled behind his eyes, his father lay dead along the valleys, the caverns, the mountains, and war bristled upon the borders, all fire and bloodshed, all mayhem and calamity. His enemies grew taller and broader while he grew smaller, weaker, plummeting his head down into the ground until his bones ached, then broke, until his skull shattered against the rocks, defeated, defined by the legions of promises left empty in the wake of his disastrous efforts. His friends disappeared, the boy with the blade and sutures, the girl with ash on her tongue, the youth twisted in ivory and gold, and finally Rikyn, drifting back into the woods, into the throng, into the heart of nothingness, and he was alone again, awaiting his desolate funeral. When he woke, limbs entangled restlessly, Enyo’s enigmatic, concerned gaze staring into his, he released a shudder, a breath, a coil of tired muscles awakened on the cold, cave floor. His sides heaved only once, a silent, primal scream, while Orsino looked on, those uncanny, wily golden slits narrowed to an imperceptible degree, because he’d seen everything between their bond, knew more than the newborn griffin, knew more than the boy and all his nightmares combined. Make it stop, the General wanted to say, but it was hushed before their connection could ensnare it completely, and he didn’t want to hear the I can’t, or I won’t.
 
So he waited a few more hours, tilting his frame so that when the first dawn’s light hovered over the horizon, he could make out the rolling hills of his home, the long, lingering valley, the untouched lake. The prince wanted to close his eyes at the promise of warmth, at the salutation of a new day, but the aches, the pains, the skirmishes brooding and brewing beyond his mind were too poignant, too brutal, and so they remained opened, staring down at the world beyond.
 
Erebos wandered out of its threshold as the shadows began to disappear, removing the stiffness from his shoulders, companions following suit, Enyo and her long legs bounding, Orsino slinking, walking, walking, walking to release the burden of his nocturnal trials, and only noting where he’d gone when the faint glow, when the dim shine of the charms stuck out from the corner of his eyes – into the middle of the summit trails and pathways, where the Reaper had been laid to rest. All at once his heart plummeted, disastrous and ruined, mired and torn, eyes lingering upon the ground to try and ward off the slide of tears, but then Enyo glided towards the tomb, gangly, ignorant, unsure, and pulled there all the same. He watched in silence as she flitted her way, toying with the gesture of her wings and the inky, Stygian length of her plumage, until she stood directly in front of the catacomb, clicking her beak towards the charms nestled together on the overhanging branches, at the bestial sire resting for eternity inside its confines. The prince swallowed down the tears again, and Orsino followed after her, while Erebos stood stock still, not daring to voice what they were doing or why, if it was all taunts and ruses and play, if they didn’t care about the beast stored within those walls and if they could just leave -
 
But he soon found himself there too, staring at the rock and rubble, kneeling down, praying, regarding, giving forth all his boldness, all his audacity, wishing and hoping and craving for something that couldn’t come true. “Father,” he whispered, proffering deliverance, oaths, love, and benediction all by the slide of his tongue, and he yearned to grant so much more to the shadows, to the fallen King, to the country, to the empire, but it remained there, sizzling along his lips, fighting over the unknown. “I miss you,” he said next, before his heart bled dry, and then all the other words came flying out, all the chronicles, all the stories. “This is Enyo,” he started, touching the griffon’s soft feathers, listening to her hearty chirps, glorifying in the entity of her existence, in the way they’d squandered the kitsunes, before another subject drowned him. “Kisamoa isn’t who we thought he was, and I don’t know how we’re going to defeat him…” (If we can), he shuddered again, knowing full well Deimos would’ve had a solution, would’ve understood how to engage another demon. More tales burned through him (“Rikyn has come home,”) and he smiled, not fake, not held in pretense, wishing for the sire to simply know about all the happenings, all the comings and goings, all the events. “Tiamat and Aisling have become our Queens,” and he thought the Reaper would’ve enjoyed the notion, even if they didn’t have a single, vile bone in their bodies. Eventually he grew silent again, grinning at the rock, before lowering his head on the dirt, on the ground before the chamber, eyes closing, listening to the wind, to the rapacious chill, to the earth moving beyond his means and measures.
 
Then, perhaps by grief, by assurance, or by mere fatigue, sleep overtook him again – and the companions, both young and wily, stood guard while their General remembered, just briefly, what it was like to be whole.

[Anyone can join. <3]

Erebos

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