The prince stirred amidst his restlessness, stared out against the backdrop of the summer sky, feeling mutinous, feeling barbaric, feeling irreverent and hollow. Bits and pieces of him had been chiseled away into corrupted shades of immorality, engulfed and swallowed by the splendor of decadence, matching tarnished, minatory efforts, until his dreams became nightmares, splashed against his valor, his reasoning, his once gallant heart with ominous intentions. He awakened from the roll of heinous ambitions with a gasp, with a soulless, incredulous beat of his soul, and set his predacious gaze on the horizon, down into the engulfing valley, determined to find something else to set his sights on (because in the corner of his eyes there was destruction and malevolence, a trial by fire, a treacherous, dangerous devilry, too much speciousness locked into the unrelenting force of his persistence, buried then alive again, whole, a contemplation of agony, strife, and potency – venom, venom, venom lodged in his core). There were beasts he wanted to watch crumble, and if he closed his gaze long enough, they burned there, feverish and dark, and he’d open them again to wonder just what he wanted in life now, besides all the things from the past he’d never be able to have again.
 
So he wandered to his father, another King of destruction, a Lord of extermination, once pressing his devouring essence into the earth and intimidating the whole of the empire with merely existing, and while the youth had once wondered what it was like, now he only yearned to see him one last time, alive, whole, breathing ferocity, sculpting barbarity. But like everything else, Erebos had allowed that time to waste away, believing he had all the hours in the world – could scorch when he felt like it, could wield a knife into an enemy when the moment came – and he’d never plunged quite far enough, had never driven straight into an opponent’s heart, had never tasted the demonic blend of vengeance he’d craved for so long. Everything fell apart in his grasp. Everyone faltered or flickered away. No matter what he managed to do, something severed, something snapped, something gave because his strength wasn’t enough.
 
Orsino growled something in his ear, and the General ignored it, pushing the foul message aside, for he’d already heard it all – lowering his head against the tainted threads of the shadows, blending into their haunted hallows until he found the trail he was looking for. He was minatory allure and maneuvering pieces of a potent shell, waiting for the right moment, the right day, the right occasion, to finally strike, uncertain how to get anywhere else – gathering his armies for patrols, narrowing his gaze to stare at the world, glancing past tree lines and needles for the enemies he’d sworn to destroy. He almost thought to ask his sire, brush all the inquiries against the stone, see what was conjured through silence and death, but the murmurs choked across his throat, spread through his tongue like a noose, and no noise came out of him – all predacious, wolfish silence, all brooding, brewing anguish as he came to the top of the rise –
 
And there was Weaver, standing before the tomb.
 
Enyo made some sort of hissing, chirping sound, amused by the familiar wings of the Corporal, but the youth simply stood there for a spell, frozen amidst indecision. A part of him merely wanted to be alone – his evenings and days spent by his father’s side had always been for him, because then he could cry, he could weep, he could sob, and the rest of the Basin couldn’t see what a mess he’d become (yet, then again, most had seen him utterly fall apart on Deimos’ cold, still frame, so perhaps they’d known all along that he was nothing). Weaver always seemed to throw her thorns his way too, maybe she saw how much he lacked, how pathetic he was despite every measure and attempt he made to be brazen, to be bold, to be better; and he simply didn’t want to have another barb harpooned into his side today. Politeness won over though, a simple, curt nod, a tightening of his jaw, as he looked past her and to the charms still remaining, tied and knotted over the heavy rocks, rain and death, glowing and radiant. “Weaver,” he proffered, and even just the form of her name was a struggle across his lips, and whatever thin, charismatic smile he’d tried to conjure fell flat, lifeless, forbidding. “What brings you here?” The prince (still just a dumb, stupid boy) managed to bring his stare back to her, arching a brow in curiosity – pondering what sort of rapier she’d launch at him next, and if he’d be able to catch it or just let it sink into his bones.

Erebos

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