He forced the bitterness away from his throat, swallowed the bile, felt it slide down into his gut as he released the bits of tension, the knots, the gnarls, the nettles and barbs from his limber columns – because, by god, he was a prince and he had better things to do than wonder, than stare, than uselessly crawl through the murk of the unknown. He pledged determination, he staked weakness, he clawed and clasped and clenched for things he wanted, things he cared about, things that restlessly lingered along the soulless particles of his entity and the savage notions of his existence. Some sentiments were still raw, still real, still cluttered about his mind like an unwinding nightmare, and he hated to relive them. Instead, he ground his muscles into firmness, undulated duty and prowess into tangible reaches, into long-reaching strides as he buried his heartache into the lake, as he channeled each and every bounty of hate into severe movements and searing motions. He danced along the void as if he were divine; he waltzed along the shapes and shimmers as if he were mad, an incantation of war and surf, sand and shoal, mockeries and travesties, treacheries and defiance. The scion ground against the water like an enemy instead of a friend, launched and leaped and pummeled, but never fell beneath its perilous wake, king and lord of the wily conjectures of rain and sun, and wanting naught more than to be the sovereign of vengeance and reciprocity. He might have stayed there for hours, howling in silence, roaring in hushed motions, a thrusting scabbard, a malicious blade, had Orsino, yawning along the banks, not gleamed through their connection, not rattled at his core, malicious and grinning.
 
Here she comes.
 
On instinct, beguiled, allured, and spellbound her trail of mischief and regality, pulled and entranced by her mere appearance, he turned towards her unwinding presence, ceasing all movement, all motion. His nares widened, his sides heaved from those moments of exertion, from the heartless, blackguard ambitions tumbling over his heart and through his muscles, sinew growing finer and brawnier, honing skills for the time when there was more than just a war in his mind or vehemence in his plans.
 
What he wouldn’t have done to invite, to tempt, to inveigle her into nonsense, into devilry, into pranks and tricks and all sorts of misconduct – to lay waste to the petulance of innocence and disregard the world for the sake of bloody amusement. But his eyes fell to the boy, to the little wisp of someone else floating at her side, and he knew those days were over. They’d been brief and bewitching, and it figured he’d spend more time pining for those moments, for those instances, than the hours actually consumed by their feral intrigues. It was always the way of his life – daring, daring, daring to embrace what he couldn’t have only long after it was destroyed, withered, and gone.
 
The lordling smiled, ever deceitful, ever mendacious, because he’d already given her far too much of himself. It didn’t reach his eyes, it didn’t reach his soul, it didn’t reach his heart, but floated, ebullient and scattered, pushing out benedictions and well-wishes, for he didn’t know what else to give her anymore. “Enna.”  He bowed his head, and it might have been mocking until he administered one to the colt too, raising his cranium as he lingered on the plains of water and mystique, granting her naught. It felt stale, dry, half-hearted and lifeless on his tongue, on his lips, like he was better off saying nothing at all – but she hadn’t wanted his concern, and that was all he had for her now. “Is there something you need?”