The prince arrived later than intended, maneuvering and shifting across the rime, across the snow, in his usual fervent, frantic pace – bounding and pushing through the perils of glaciers and powder for the opportunity to bask in the glory of their Basin. He stood along the outer apertures of the crowd, blending and molding into the shadows so perhaps his father wouldn’t see how tardy and belated he’d been, sporting a scion’s grin and nodding to the few he knew (raising his skull just a fraction, just a hair, over several others, hoping to spy some of his companions – but none remained nearby, and he lowered it back to its former position and took to staring at those assembled). The growing lad did his part and listened, absorbed the surroundings, the throngs, the resounding perils and bits of information flourishing over the horizon: Ophelia gone, renouncing her throne (and then sharpened details of wonder piqued his interest; for who ascended to crowns and titles, only to relinquish them soon after? He’d certainly never dream for a power of that nature; whatever he grasped, whatever he held, he wanted to have for eternity), two others standing with his sire (Hotaru, pink and rosy, Thranduil, eerie and golden). He may have slunk into more curious antics, presided into more precarious thoughts, had Arah, the gilded one, and the Engineer not suddenly flown into rancorous edges and haughty tones – his eyes rounded, fascinated, at the emboldened displays of anger, of righteousness, of who deserved what and why hadn’t they been named. While Deimos managed to absorb the blows prospered towards him, Thranduil did anything but, releasing a torrent of replies, and little Erebos, with his avaricious toils and his gleaming, spellbound stare, could do naught but witness the occurrence. He might have done the same if in the golden’s position, fired off shot after shot, gone out in a blaze of infernal reminders of his prowess and potential, but disregarding Arah or the Weaver so quickly could have been a binding conundrum. Too young, too unsure, too new and foreign to the inner politics, to the working streams behind Cheshire grins and withering, dying loyalties, he merely assimilated the actions into his brow, into his mind, into his membrane, for further rumination, pondering how he’d react to constant punctures.

Take just what I came for