The prince expected a lot of things to come from her mouth (the hard edges, the lines of distrust, the brewing of something they’d yet to share – anger? Wrath? Contempt?), but the notion she spewed and spit upon him was so perplexing to the boy that he raised his head from staring at the stone floor, eyes widened, bewildered. “What are you talking about?” It knocked him off his embittered pinnacle, his grieving, anguished state, so much so that he was less rock, rubble, and ruin now, a flicker of the being he was before, when the world hadn’t been so savage and vicious, when he hadn’t lost his sire, when he hadn’t lost his mother, when his dreams had been real, tangible things, not ghosts, not phantoms, not wraiths etched in vengeance. “I don’t hate you.” His brow arched, his mind whirled, desperate to seek and distort the inclinations of where she’d even begun to think in such a way, what actions he’d taken to incur her rancor – but anything he’d ever done had been in reaction to her remarks (to her should I trust you? like he wasn’t worth being in command of them, like he’d turn his back on their hides and flee the scene, like he was a piece and pile of mercenary flesh). He’d blanched and bristled, but never hated - such vile contortions were reserved for his enemies, for his opponents, for the disastrous beasts who’d scarred, blemished, and murdered his friends. It would take a lot more than her barbs to ensure he loathed and abhorred her presence – sometimes he dreaded it though, because he had more than enough wounds for one day, and she always managed to lance him, to harpoon him, where he least expected it. He’d always been a beast built on faith, on oaths, on promises, and maybe she couldn’t see it in his frame, in his essence, in his soul, but it still hurt when she didn’t believe in him. It still hurt when the rest of the realm followed. It still hurt when everywhere he looked, the Reaper was nowhere to be found, because he was gone, gone, gone and there was nothing he could do about it. He tilted his head then, lost in their strange, misaligning circumstances, where they’d turned away from one another and proceeded down such alternating routes. “I thought you hated me.”
 
Then she softened slightly, and he didn’t know what to do but listen. She picked her words carefully, perhaps understanding how wounded he was now, how ridiculously stupid he was, how he carried the shards of himself and his family wherever he went, how some of the only things he had left were contained and blocked by stone and tombs. “It depends on who you ask,” he stated at first, careful, because his father had been a mystifying character, hellbent on destruction and chaos, arching, annihilating, driven to demolition and abhorrence, always intending to mutilate those who dared to do the same to his herd. No matter the flaws, no matter the defects, no matter the nonchalant features or the inability to hold many conversations, Erebos had cherished each and every moment with his father – had loved, loved, and loved. “To some, he was cold and distant. To others, he was the definition of power and destruction. With one touch, he could kill. He protected and defended this herd until his dying day. He was never afraid. He didn’t know how to make friends.” On the last note, he gave a half-hearted laugh, remembering the days where the boy had asked his sire to try, but the Reaper had always been too immersed in the shadows, striving to find that intricate balance of indifference and compassion. He’d made an impact though, if his funeral had been any indication; but always too little, too late – the realm, the empire, never told him how much he’d been worth until he couldn’t hear them anymore. The prince blinked away the shards of tears threatening to drown him behind his eyes, lowered his head, and stared at the catacomb, the glowing charm, the raindrop sliding down the other, as she uttered her final question. “He was my father – he was everything to me.” The rancor washed away with the coming of grief, allowed, permitted to settle into the dark despair, the ghosts along the edges of his gaze, surrendering his convictions from the depths of his soul. The words were quiet, but there, resounding across the rocks and ruins. He didn’t know why he told her all of this – but it was a serene sort of release, lighter than cruelty, than ferocity, than the odd imbalances and misunderstandings between the two of them. “He taught me how to be brave. He scolded me for being idiotic. He showed me to never, ever, give in.” And somehow, that’d always been enough, until he was gone, and Erebos was naught without him.

Erebos

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