The dreams were vivid still, depictions of reality, forced behind the brilliance of his blue stare, so all he saw were transgressions brought to life again and again. The Sun God yelled and told him to look forward, fire and brimstone, flailing embers and coal, and the boy could only glance behind him, at his father, at his mother, at his sister, at the countless other souls left discarded, like rubble, like ruin. Perhaps he’d never been capable of pondering over the wiles of the future, too immersed in the slates of the past and the notions, sentiments, and events he could never change or alter (but wanted to – wanted to see them over and over; the blistering flares of hope, the stumbling bouts of triumph, the way youth sputtered and glimmered without remorse). Maybe he’d never make it beyond the threshold of yesterdays, stuck and mired and rooted in the sentiments of vengeance and annihilation, the moments he’d left scattered across the soil, the bloodshed he hoped to kindle, the action he longed to transpire. No matter how much he pleaded, begged, or yearned for, those instances, those occasions, were all gone – fleeting patchworks of a life unfulfilled, of destinies scorned and scorched, of potency left to wither and fade. He sobbed in his fantasies, wept upon the grounds of his father’s final breath, dove into the shadows where he’d last seen Huyana as she embarked on her journey into the abyss, screamed for his sister, covered in flowers. But then it everything seemed to twist back upon itself, and he saw bright, vivid colors, demons dressed in ivory and daggers, ancestors dancing across beaches and shoreline, his head resting on dunes and rocks, a moonlit tide beneath the gathering dusk, a world he’d never seen, a world he’d never been born into. He tried to reach for it, cranium rising from the sand, towards the wayfaring strangers sliding amidst the waves, crying out for them, waiting for their skulls to twist and turn towards him, the prince, the General, but then everything seemed to fade and the light from the morning stretched across his skin. The empire was just as cold, just as chilling, as when he’d last left it – but his eyelids stayed shut, tight, locked together so he didn’t have to face the day just yet.
 
He heard voices though, cluttered together, sounds and nuances and bolder sentiments collected amidst his mind – his companions, beaks clicking, tails puffing, someone coming floating in his skull, sharper, clearer, trying to alarm him before the beast made an appearance. For a few seconds though, he just didn’t care – let them find him, wilted before his sire’s grave and tomb, fading away like the rest of their world, he was allowed to grieve, he was allowed to mourn – but then the hoof beats ricocheted, reverberated along the stone, and Orsino bristled, sable hairs rising, and Enyo came to stand beside his crown.
 
Erebos whipped his head up as soon as the noises ceased, wondering who stood guard along the summit range now, who’d been witness to another beast falling apart, but as his sharpened stare took in the argent stag, he found he had no name to this particular face. He’d been here and there, a part of the background, a piece of the granite, and the youth should’ve been ashamed for not having the beast’s title, but he pretended, set up his pretenses like so many times before, serenaded in amiability: “Morning,” sliding a cheek down his foreleg to take away the remnants of tears, always in masquerade, tying the strings of his guise together because it was all he had left here, beneath the glowing and rain-borne charms, lost, lost, lost. He didn’t get up though, feigning a yawn, as if he’d just fallen there, taken a nap after a round of nocturnal patrols, instead of trying to ensure his soul didn’t splinter apart, irreverent gaze fixated back upon the stranger. “I’m Erebos,” he noted, and then all three (the fox, the griffin, and the General – melded and folded and sculpted together in accord and calamity) gazed at the Disciple, wondering when another blow was to come screeching at their heads, if he didn’t trust in the youth either, if the fortifications lodged across his heart had already been broken long ago. His voice didn’t quiver, didn’t shake; held all the boldness, all the audacity he’d once fostered between tides of glory and anguish. “What brings you up here?”

Erebos

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