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What had he said to Fynaeon on that fateful day? Dripping with venom and treachery and wicked intent, what had been his words?
Run, little prince. I will not be so forgiving when I am king.
Fynaeon grimaced with quiet revulsion. He wanted to spit, the mere thought alone causing him to taste a special kind of bitterness that coated the inside of his mouth. Instead, our lost prince shook his head with powerful fervor, loosening the layers of snow that had collected along the violent curves of alabaster horns.
Forgiveness... it was the last thing Fynaeon wanted from that conniving snake. The more time he spent pondering the events of that day – and, as it turns out, Fynaeon had all the time in the world now – the more he began to question how he could have missed the signs. If time on the mountain had taught him anything, it had been to delude your opponent into thinking he had the advantage, and wait to play your winning hand. Had he become so blind as to not see the hatred just below the surface? When had he lost the ability to read between the lines? The memories played in front of his mind’s eye now, flickering and shattered as if watching from behind sheets of ice and snow. There was Atticus, standing just beyond the corpse of their father and smiling, his one defected eye gleaming brilliantly against the fiery red sky. Hungry obsession brimmed from the corners of his mouth as if he, too, could not believe he had triumphed over the warrior prince. Then Vivika, whose scream he could still hear every night since... Their silent exchange as Fynaeon turned to flee. And finally the trail of blood-stained prints left in his wake, forever branded in his mind.
No, not forgiveness, little brother, Fynaeon thought as the beginnings of quiet resentment stirred from within.
I want what only death can free you from.
It was, perhaps, mere seconds after this very thought that Fynaeon looked up to find a solitary figure standing just a few paces away. In the blurr of light flurries that drifted down from the treetops, Fynaeon for a brief and frightening moment thought he could see the face of his brother staring back at him. He blinked, his vision refocused, and the smiling, one-eyed snake faded from sight. In his place, rather, was a stranger not much younger than Atticus, though appeared significantly taller. Fynaeon felt his heart settle in his chest, returning to its steady pace, and as the stranger dipped his head, Fynaeon too inclined his massive skull.
Welcome to Helovia. I’m Erebos. Who are you? A fair question, but not one Fynaeon felt safe to answer. He glanced to his left, his head moving horns of heavy ivory bone, and frowned as he regarded the situation. What were the chances of someone knowing his name? Surely traveling so far south from his home meant he was safe from anyone seeking his head. If Atticus was as smart as he pretended to be, Fynaeon knew his brother prepared to enact a full manhunt. Not doing so would draw suspicion. Fynaeon flared his nostrils with mild annoyance. Never should a prince need to disguise himself as anything other than what he was. But, if he wanted to ride quietly under the radar, Fynaeon needed to take careful steps in order not to draw attention.
“
I am no one,” He said finally, the rich and cultured accent of his booming voice revealing too much about himself already. Sunkissed eyes shifted to the Erebos again. “
But, if it suits you, some have come to call me Bull.”
It would take more than a simple greeting in order for Fynaeon to provide his true calling. As it was now, the potential of being found out was too much of a possibility.
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ooc | Can I just say, you write beautifully? :o You put my attempt at writing to shame.
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