On the days he didn’t run on anguish, he was fueled on hate. It was a conniving rage, incensed and brutal, corrupt and bleak, forged by the flames of his ineptitude, on his broken, failed promises, on his ability to overcome, to devastate, or to conquer. Bitter pieces of memory would fall into place as he hunted, as he scavenged, as he scorched the land, incensed and mercenary, blending into the shadows, a blade, a knife, a dagger aimed at hearts and souls. He’d recall beautiful, little Arwen and her brilliant, ivory tassels stained in blood, the towering Colossus standing before her, defiant, ready to fell another just for the sake of murder and condemnation, just because he could, and the sickening pulse of contempt flooding through his noble, princely mind, the Machiavellian twists and turns – then meeting him again, putting a wound on his side but nothing more, nothing else, nothing that made him bleed and bleed and bleed until there was naught left but his empty, useless carcass. He’d recall a intruder sliding through their frozen doorstep, blending into the surroundings as if he owned the world, pressing his nefarious whims towards Enna and her son, and then how he’d rushed at the stranger as he threatened, as he garnished, as he tried to toss a cutlass into his figure, and even then, naught happened. He remembered Ashamin, the monster in the shadow of the labyrinth, how he’d thought and believed he’d be able to conquer and destroy this unknown enemy, how the jaws had slunk over his frame and made him cower, made him fall, made him weak and pathetic and forced into regrets and disdain.
 
Then, there’d been Enna again, nearly destroyed on the cave floor, battered, bruised, bloodied, left to die, left to fester, left to wither away in silence, and he’d vowed retribution in his rage, in his feral, savage, nefarious oaths. Even when she’d begged him not to, he’d looked and chased, stalked and hounded, became a shadow, a twisted, gnarled, wretched fiend, following a fellow monster – and hit only dead ends.
 
So he’d come to be the useless little prince, the boy who stood for so many things – vengeance, revenge, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a life for a life, completely incapable of dispensing any of these measures. He often wondered what others saw when they glanced his way: some pathetic brat, some worthless imbecile, some scion who had all the potential in the world, but none of the means, none of the qualities, none of the ability to carry them out, a waste, an empty, lingering piece of irreverence falling apart at the seams. What good was he to anything, to anyone? What was the worth of his assurances? What was the value in his contracts, in his commitments?
 
You will be better, his father had once said, and the boy had tried, he’d tried, but it all spiraled into pointlessness.
 
So the anger came easily; fury rested right between his bones and his veins, bestial and audacious, bold and barbaric, pooling, festering, entangling amidst his indignation and derision, pulsing, pervading, stealing his breath, his soul, his essence, scorching, seething, swallowing, consuming in its vicious cycle. His movements were made on madness and distortion, his motions were made on uproar and disorder, and his thoughts were made on rebellion, insurrection, toxic, indulgent mayhem. He bristled, he fumed, he smoldered; a storm on the horizon, a fire stoked, an inferno threatening to rise towards the skies and block out the sun. He wanted to prove to the world that valor held merit, that his promises weren’t empty, that he was worth something; however small, however miniscule, however trifle.
 
And, even though she didn’t crave it, even though she told him not to follow the cretin coiled within, he wanted her avenged.
 
Him, came a hiss, came a growl, came a stroke of kitsune intellect, and the prince slowed, was left standing, staring, at the proclaimed demon, at the image Thranduil had once given him. He wasn’t bloody any longer, not poised and scarred from Enna’s attempts to defend herself, to fight back, but he knew, he knew it was him, that disgusting, pathetic being who’d maimed and torn and mutilated (he could see her now, flayed because she’d refused to give in, because she’d tried to live). It took every effort, every restraint, not to rush against the wind, not to lower his head and stab him where he stood, to not rip him apart like he’d done to her. Soon, Orsino laughed, an echo in his head, and Erebos agreed, almost chuckling too, as if the divine beings had finally granted him a worthy gift, and Enyo was in there somewhere too, clicking her beak, uncertain of where to go or what to be.
 
But Erebos understood what he was supposed to do – and it was methodical, it was bewitching, it was alluring, a beckoning bellow to all the cold forbearance, to the chilling nonchalance of his father’s frozen features – except he twisted all his hatred, all his malice, all his enmity into a Cheshire grin, an impish delight, an air of mischief instead of alarm, before he carved the beast’s heart out of his chest. “Hello!” He called, like an amiable figure on the horizon – shrouded in belligerence, in rancor, in spite, in death and desecration, wandering closer along the lava’s reaches, the bubbling fire pits, the eerie, eldritch whims of hate and loathing. The General pretended not to see the tears, vivid, clear, on the stag’s face, pretended he hadn’t heard the scream echoing through the chambers, and pretended he wasn’t swallowed by the abhorrence searing through his veins. “What brings you here?”

Erebos

clever got me this far - - then tricky got me in