Erebos Eye On What I'm After The youth had realized long ago that the title prince meant very little. Princes couldn’t slay dragons. Princes couldn’t revive the fallen. Princes couldn’t beg their mothers to stay. Princes couldn’t entreat their companions to remain nestled in peaks, valleys, snow, and wind. Princes could watch and beck and call and scream, and still, nothing would happen. He was the son of a King – but in days, seasons, months, and years spent in a world that could be collapsed by the brush of chaos, by the sting of corruption, a moniker was naught. It didn’t lend him any accolades. It didn’t anoint him with wisdom. It didn’t reward him with crowns or jewels, garb or armor, noble intrigue or fundamental truths. He’d only been granted with the sagacity of his sire and dam; who’d spent their lifetime carving, sculpting, and reigning (raining too he wanted to say, watching his father still look for Huyana on the horizon), with stories, with notes and sketches, with traces and foundations – he’d been privileged, but he’d also wandered from heathen cliff top to eldritch fountains, drawing on what he’d been taught and what he could discover. The boy took what he could, snatched and held and grasped and tore, swearing never to let go (and he didn’t, that much was certain, when he visualized the Colossus toppling, the giant’s dragons falling, everything crashing and burning because that was going to be his role in life – avenging those who couldn’t do it for themselves), to always cling to those memories, those people, those beloved, cherished whims and moments. When she spouted about birthrights Erebos wanted to scoff and snort, for simply being born didn’t mean one was entitled to greatness, to empires, to thrones; a beast had to earn their regime, had to challenge the world. When she drifted about tales (of Psyche the DarkEmpress, about a woman who had led them from refugees to mountaineers) he wanted to hear them all, again and again, let those legends pierce through his ears and ricochet along his skull (because they’d been about defeat, but also glory, a chance to snatch what had been destroyed). When she wanted answers, he simply remained silent, allowed her to boil over, to simmer, to wash over her layers of calm, dainty composure. The scion knew went to be quiet too, to permit the world to play its part, for the earth to unravel or shades to collide.
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@Själ