Erebos was struck by the quiet, by her silent acceptance, by the vigilant current coiling beneath his feet. The boy breathed in the stillness, in the hushed platitudes, in those brief instances of peace, forgiveness, and understanding, pressed her nearer, closer, to his chest, watching her child play by stones and snow. He said nothing of her gentleness, of her ferocity, of the ghosts toiling over both their bones, over the layers and lacquer between antlers, swords, and skin, simply existing in their watery interlude, in their enduring intrigue, in their restless abandonment and snagging of camaraderie (how quickly it had gone, then come back, and he wondered just how far he’d pushed it today – if he’d nearly lost her to anger, to hostility, to so many things unspoken, and if he’d have mourned her as one more loss to his blackguard heart). Maybe she didn’t know, couldn’t fathom, just how far he’d go for her (he’d do anything she asked; soundless or consecrated, yearning or desperate). The fiend didn’t even counter her noiseless, inaudible argument, the contrary shake of her head as he offered his sword, his abilities, or his predacious prowess (carnivore amore). He’d already sunk the figure into his memories, into his fragments, into his Machiavellian mind, and spun them for another venue, another time, another place, where he could lance and brutalize, paralyze and devastate, where she’d never know, she’d never see, she’d never realize how much menace was ensconced, buried, within him (molten and barbaric, savage and instrumental, like a finely tuned piano, reciting melodies of vehemence and mayhem). He’d sting through shadows. He’d puncture through parlors. He’d devastate and condemn and maul because someone had dared to hurt one of his own; his convictions tied her soul back into his and whittled away at the marrow, at the flesh, at the depths of his mind, painting pictures, scenes, of impending massacres. His smile grew, enticed, by the promise of predilection (maybe he’d be known as the lad who chased ghosts, who hunted wraiths, who maimed phantoms – always longing, always wishing, always hoping for something he couldn’t have).

He allowed her to push away, to glance back at her child as he basked in the wilderness of the Basin – one part a piece of the ice, and the other portion unknown to the prince. The youth followed her gaze, listened to her words, pressed against them with assurance, with authority, chiseling fortitude through his parted lips, drumming confidence along his mouth. “You will be.” There wasn’t a single segment of doubt in his vocals, in the level gaze he offered her, in the piece of mischief collected in his eyes and the violence curling through his entity. He hid all the other nuances, all the other notions, behind his veil of charisma and amiability; she didn’t need to know, didn’t need to guess what he was calculating, deciding, between those layers of iniquity and immorality. The beast likely would’ve been content to bask in reflective pieces of her strength, of her endurance, of her power and prowess, how she’d be capable of anything and everything, all the sentiments she wanted and all the motions she craved – but Enna remembered where it’d all began, striking him again.

Erebos didn’t flinch at the phrase, didn’t wince, start, or shudder at the renewed conversation. Instead, he merely turned to look elsewhere, past the lad and his shapeless pile, past the caverns and hot springs, past the sweeping valleys, eyes masked in ghostly figurines, of gilded fillies and colossal giants, of draconic claws and pools of blood. He didn’t want to tell her. He didn’t want her to know, because then she’d realize how truly weak he was. She’d seen him at his worst, driven to nothingness, to a heap of scars and failure, but the bitter, harsh reminder that there was even more catastrophes and disasters riddled over his frame, along his memories, was a knife, a sword, a blade, to his chest.

For a few moments, he merely said nothing at all. His mind debated, his machinations mired, and his bestial shades revolted. She didn’t need to hear about one more bit of harshness in the world – not when she’d already suffered her own devastating trials. Enna should’ve been allowed to enjoy time with her son, at peace, in repose, without the world tumbling down around them. But she’d granted, given, him (an unworthy piece of the earth) portions of her painful history, and some part of him thought he needed to return the favor.

But to what end? What would she do with it? Would she glance at him with pity, with shame, with disgust? Would she destroy him with the notion of his failures?

Perhaps he’d let her.

His tongue moved on its own accord, present and speculative, but his stare remained firmly rooted in the past. “There were a lot of us born around the same time in the Basin.” A tiny smile registered there, tucked against his cheek, remembering the crowd, the horde, the gang of mercenary little beasts and banshees. “We had a set of twins, Asch and Arwen. They were quiet, not like Aithniel, Rikyn, and I.” He breathed in, a tiny nuance, locking his frame into place to continue the tale, despite temptation to flee again. “I didn’t know Arwen very well.” Asch had been more like them on her own – silly and mercurial, but charitable to a fault, not caring that he’d nearly burned her alive on a fickle spit of anger and contempt – but he didn’t tell that story. “But I followed her scent once, along the Steppe, thinking we could play.” For a moment, his gaze narrowed, dangerous and unholy, vile and nefarious, recalling the seconds thereafter, the barbaric discovery, the treacherous layers of terror, of contempt, of not understanding what to do or how to save her. “When I got there, though, she was dead.” He didn’t throw in the details of her lacerations, of her maimed body lying in a pool of blood; harsh, radiant red against the blinding, blistering ivory of snow (how lost, how desolate, how forlorn she’d been, allowed to take her last breath with no one around but that disgusting, horrid oaf). He still didn’t look at her, carefully orchestrating every inhale and exhale, trying to maintain control over something. “She’d been murdered.”

Only thereafter did he dare look at Enna, hoping she didn’t see, didn’t feel, the corrupt entanglements threading through the anger, the wrath, curling and coiling behind his frame, or the haunting, poignant carving of failure hovering over his eyes. “I couldn’t do anything.”

But one day, I will.