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He’d felt magic before, rooted and stoked in the denizens of his feet, bestowing him the ability to seize, to possess, the squalls and tempests of the ocean. Mystical and enigmatic, strange and uplifting, the blue prince had been scared of its mysterious qualities. What had it meant: a possession of power, or a demonstration of wickedness? Enchantments and invocations were something alive and well within the inhabitants of Helovia, but to have his own had been a noteworthy venue (shock, fear, then satisfaction, laced, woven, ensnared, into his passionate, demonic mind). But his water-walking, his Poseidon abilities, his Neptune faculties, had never hurt someone before – only tarnished the waves, the sea, the churning, arbiter’s grounds with his presence, while he coasted, while he ghosted, from shoreline to shoreline. The fire blooming, flaring, brewing within his steadfast heart was another thing altogether.
It erupted and roared, blared through his eardrums, cried through his veins, harked and heralded in the mass of an enriched inferno, drowning out anything and everything amidst the cathedral walls. It drummed in massive swarms of influence, of authority, of dominance, marked future wars and bestial hymns, clambered and sizzled in bellicose shards, tied and tethered to the ferocious fuselage of his anger, of his ire. While he should have cherished it, coveted it, tasted and relished in the fathoms of his capabilities (because it had been dormant within him all along, this great, zealous, fervent art; he could be a monster, a King, a sleuth!), the actions unwinding from its terrible blaze interrupted the careening vehemence of his latent talents – Asch was hurt. She waltzed away, sharp and quick, trembling, shaking, shuddering from the burning doldrums he kindled and ignited, and instead of savoring the legacy he’d managed to forge, he panicked.
Erebos ceased all movement, extinguishing the flame as quickly as it’d arrived, burning the holes back into its wares, into its holster, shoving all the rage, all the tempestuous chords away, eyes widening, pleading, begging for some solution and salvation. He hadn’t meant to harm a friend, he hadn’t meant to gauge and seize and maim a companion, and before long he too was shaking, little muscles rippling, tiny body terrorized and diminished for wounding someone he dared to call brethren. Even his voice choked and smothered, ashen and devoured, strangled from all its prior strength, eyes winding their way across the floor, too ashamed to look towards Asch and her seared frame. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to!” He raised his head, gallant heart bewitched and spellbound by the apologies scarring his throat, blistering, scorching enamel, a loss of control, slithering and damning. Would she hate him? Would she chastise him? Would she tell everyone on earth that he was the worst? But then the filly asked if he was okay, like she didn’t matter, as if he hadn’t terrorized her with his complete lack of control, and a tiny prick of tears collected in the corner of his eyes, because the realm was unfair: declaring him powerful while attacking, assaulting, a friend. “Are you okay? Do you need a healer?” He couldn’t understand why she was being so kind to him, why she was nurturing a feral, barbaric storm, why she didn’t flee from the scorn, from the brutality, he’d managed to unfold upon her. The lad sniffled once, downcast and forlorn all over again. “Yes. I just got so angry-,” he stopped his speech quickly, swiftly, for there was no explanation he could give to assuage the situation and restore her psyche. He’d done her a grave injustice.
But the scion also listened to her tale, of boiling blood, of superheating ichor, and it suddenly warmed his heart to know there were others like him: making mistakes, sinking beneath errors, waging wars over their own invocations. Like two friends constructed and composed in trenches, his steadfast features glanced over her benevolent ones, intrigued, curious, struggling to regain equilibrium. “Really? What happened?”
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