The silence was heavy, tight, overbearing, and he waited for something to break – chiseling that boyish smile eagerly across his lips at the sight of an old friend as she began to turn. Then the breath rushed out from both their lungs, out of sight, out of mind, and everything seemed so remarkably odd, out of sorts, misaligned, misshapen, torn out of canvas too abruptly, ripped, caught, snared; her initial voice was marked by furrowed brows and inquiry. His grin faltered then, fell apart instantly, mind unraveling with confusion, flinching slightly as if marked, wounded, and quartered himself – because she didn’t seem to know who he was. Perhaps she’d forgotten all about him in her time away from the north, from the realm, from the empire she once carefully guarded. Maybe it was a sign that he truly was nothing at all, a miniscule speck on the horizon of so many other outlines and events, dust, sand, tiny granules of earth meant to scatter and not shake the world. He’d just been a little soldier, a boy grasping at gallantry and fate, before he’d been cast into the darker, desolate, forlorn structures of death, of vengeance, of toils and spoils; the trials and tribulations of finally growing up – and she’d been the wiser elder, the strict advocate for endurance and potency, the starry aspirations of a child who wanted to pummel Goliath skulls into the ground. But he’d meant naught to her, because even his presence didn’t seem to muster one sentiment of recognition. The juncture played out like a shard of glass, like a knife, like a laceration, cutting against him so much that his careful, amiable pretenses flickered away, and he was just left with a tilted head and wounded pride (not worth remembering; even after fights and battles and scars, predatory alliances and chances to become something, a smoldering ember, a fastidious flame, tricks and strategies and coy pretenses left to simmer out in the cold). “You don’t remember me,” he stated, flatly at first, giving the truth, the veracity, its cold, hard value, allowing it to press over his soul, a beautifully carved inward blemish. He wanted to bellow and proclaim all his efforts, all his ideals, all his ambitions towards her then – so she would recall him, the little prince with valor and might forged into his blood but with foolishness and ineptitude in there as well – but then the rest of her inquiries made no sense, inanity sputtered into the void.
 
Shouldn’t she know of this world? Shouldn’t she understand this palisade of mirrors and pools wasn’t owned by anyone, much less him? His eyes narrowed, his head shook, and he attempted to piece the puzzles together, while Orsino sat eerily by, and Enyo clicked her beak, encouraging him to forge on. The sable kitsune was diligent, at the very least, in his stead for intellect and cunning, because his uncanny eyes focused on the broken horn chiseled upon her crown, and he urged the General to turn his head, to stare at the fragments whittled and blasted away – and perhaps there was something to that damaged beacon, a proud sword in dire need of mending. The corners of his lips gestured to a small smile again, less eager, less bright, but friendly and amiable still, desperate not to appear irked, irritated, and vexed by the ways the world seemed to plague against everyone – finally answering the queries she’d thrown into the reflective surface. It was a wonder the questions didn’t bound, leap, and smack him in the face. “This is an open land. It isn’t claimed by anyone,” he gestured at first, skull twisting to stare into the starry passageways, muddled, perplexed, before turning back to her, a once-soldier who’d been chastened and shifted by mirages. The Ki’irha he’d always known wouldn’t have been ensnared by the simplest of tricks; and now, she seemed lost, twisted back, folded on herself, and he didn’t truly understand her at all. “Where are you trying to go?” The question tied itself in his throat, gnarled and throbbing, a beating crescendo of knotted sentiments, trying to forget how badly it hurt. The answer should’ve been obvious, because she was meant to be in the mountains, in the valleys, beside the glaciers, resting alongside the summits – but maybe she didn’t remember them either, for fate was cruel, and he’d learned about the wickedness of the earth long, long ago.

Erebos

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