Not all misery appeared in the same way – he’d learned that as a mere child playing and tripping, stumbling and fumbling. Skinned knees and bruised egos had seemed so barbaric and annihilating, but were easily soothed by a mother’s gentle touch and sweet nothings. Failure on the battlefield, in the twists and turns of a labyrinth, rattled one’s confidence or heightened their determination, until the agony was a pulsing, unwinding madness, a toiling din ringing in the ears. Success, triumph, conquering and devouring could push the memory of losing, of being less than someone else, away for a time, for a spell, because somehow, someway, they’d managed to become better than another poor, unknown sap. But death, he’d learned, added a whole new meaning to pain – it was always fresh and enduring. It never quite went away. The images stayed put, firm and stagnant, listless and lethargic, blurring together along the traces of what the individual used to be. The prince had known Arwen as gold and liveliness, glimmers of satin and pearls, never truly joining their section of fools, sometimes funneling and tracing her way through their scholarly lessons under Zikar’s watchful, eerie eyes. But those images were ghosts, wraiths, phantoms, compared to the scene of her lying broken in the snow, snapped and disjointed, bloody and still. All he’d done then was scream and shout, become immersed in contempt and wrath, not knowing what to do with it except embrace the emotions, the sentiments for what they were – grieving later, much later, when he no longer saw the painted Colossus and his terrible, odious dragons. It was a shame that he didn’t have more memories of her alive, beautiful and gilded, shuffling through their frozen tundra, silly and destined to whatever fate threw her way, whatever fortune deigned to hand to her (she hadn’t deserved that brutal, barbaric, mutilated end).

But Enna had more pain to give, to grant, to slide and skewer him on than he’d ever imagined possible. She struck and hit, bit and tore. He stood there, silent and stupid, as she dashed him against the rocks and threw him to the wolves and laid him out into the sea, dull and ridiculous, terrible and ruthless. The boy, the stupid, stupid little boy, lowered his head and stared at the lake beneath him as she tore into her own wraiths and phantoms, a series of works and moments and ventures that seemed only to ride on the glory, the tragedy, of anguish and agony. His heart leapt and his throat closed, breath lapsing across the winter thaw and the promise of spring, narrowing his slits so they didn’t recall what it was like to cry. Her reasons were long and carved, sculpted, through the tyranny and terror she’d faced; he’d known nothing about her, naught at all but devilry and torment, and he could see now, as he raised his face to stare at her, a woman who’d been forced into mournful roles more than once. She spoke of other children, a daughter, who hadn’t lived, and his gaze followed over to little Etziel building his tower of snow, swallowed the bile threatening to coat his throat, and understanding just how foolish, just how incensed he’d been over something far more massive than he could ever be. The scion released a breath, let it flicker, let it die along the water line, yearning to fight her monsters, her demons, if she’d just let him. The idiot from the cave would’ve been the first (he remembered the way he’d curved in the catacombs, drawn in veneer and then suddenly there, and to know, to realize, that he’d maimed something so dear to her before was enough of a reason to seek him out and destroy him).

Maybe he didn’t need her permission. Maybe he’d just do it on his own – cherish the way his sword struck bones and marrow, tissue and flesh, the way it cut and lacerated and punctured. And the other man for whom she had no name (was he the same as the one who’d sired Etziel? How many more were there, all lined up to receive his rage?)? What had become of him?

I trust you, I love you… - and there was his answer, for there was a chance she’d never forgive him if he went out striking her foes. He cherished her too much to lose her (and lord, was he sick and tired of being deprived of those he revered).

But the taste of rage didn’t leave his mouth, sitting, smoldering, brewing in its intoxicating blend, remembering, tracing, sketching the foundation of her words, so if he found them, they’d know the pain, the torment, the anguish of her losses. That’s all they’d recall too, when he was done with them.

So instead of yielding, instead of retreating any further, he presided again along the lake, princely and dignified, closing in as her knees sank into the water. His maw reached out to her frame, extending guidance and support before she was swallowed by the tempest, by the swarm of their misunderstandings, lowering his head further and tugging her close to him. The child, the warrior, the foolish youth, curled his crown around her and pressed her against his chest, feeling her antlers tickle and stick at his jaw, loosening his jaw so breaths played out with less vitriol, with more hope and resolution. “And you don’t want me to worry about you?” He whispered, offered the barest smile she couldn’t see, the flash of bewitching enticement haunting his eyes, before lowering his stare so it rested on the boy. “If you just say the word, I’d hunt them down for you.” Them; like there was a tidal wave of threats rushing against her, like there were legions of monsters battling for her flesh (and perhaps there were, with all these entanglements, with all these harsh, caustic pathways she’d managed to find herself on). They wouldn’t be the only ones I’m chasing. “You deserve him,” he assured her. She deserved a lot of things – especially happiness with her son.

Somewhere on the bank Orsino’s eyes gleamed, golden and blistering, scalding and unwinding, like secrets, like promises, like benedictions carved by hot iron and knives.