“I’m jealous of your exploits,” says Erebos.

The Lost Prince feels his smile falter ever so slightly, a part of his chest clenching, deep inside. Had life truly become so droll for his brother in the absence of his childhood companions? Had he never learned to adventure, alone?

Rikyn supposed not, now that he really thought about it; the blue black boy had not followed his mother when she’d vanished from Helovia, as Rikyn had. The True Prince had never left the serene safety of home, the promise of Lordship and power had ever been at his hoof tip. For that, Rikyn was jealous of his friend, to have never lost the command found in a name, a lineage – but that envy seemed much smaller an emerald darkness when compared to the pure black absence of the delight to be discovered in discovery.

"We can go break in somewhere together whenever you want," he remarks with a smile, bright, making a small promise, to whatever within himself that tracked that sort of thing, that he would come see Erebos more, that he would lure him into the world, that they would, for a small while, delight in the laughter of being small and completely free.

Though he had never told the Erebos as much, though he may never, he loves his friend, his dark companion, the Knight of the Lake who rides alongside his burnished banners, their hearts in time. In his head, that is the scene that plays when he thinks of Erebos: not as individuals, as when they are alone, blood feeding the silent earth, or hearts breaking, and breaking, the makeshift repairs hard, and metallic.

As is common with men, the outward scars are easier to discuss than the inner: Rikyn’s golden eyes admire each warrior’s badge on the roan’s figure with the praise a brother gives another. Even if they were marks of failure, they meant they had survived it, that they were stronger than the day before. The boy meets the tilted gaze of his friend with a bright smile, happy to lead the conversation away from how many times the golden marked stag had failed to ask Erebos along for the fun. His shoulder shrugs. He rarely knows why he goes anywhere anymore, other than that he goes.

"I got to wondering about it, I guess," he answers, not wanting to delve into the fact that, sometimes, he walks just for the company of his hoof beats, the changing scenery; still foolishly clinging to the notion that his life is all roses and perfection, not lonely nights and long, parallel days, "but I think now that it was to see you."

Wandering alone does that to a mind – it teaches it to see, taste, hear things that are invisible, that are nothings unless you really stare at them. Rikyn has spent a lot of time alone. An ear tilts back, awkwardly, not liking the soft, warm emotions that his last statement has coated his tongue in, his golden eyes flashing strangely as they seal away the parts of himself that aren’t tarnished.

"Wanna spar?" he asks, manly, overly gruff, as if the notion of violence would cover the utter feminine fluff that had just fallen out of his mouth.