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07-05-2016, 03:19 PM
They’d pushed too far – he realized that now – crossed too many lines, forged one too many eldritch incantations. He’d jerked back, away from the mirror, facing his sire as quickly as he’d felt the magic filling the air, the plumes, the atmosphere, eyes widened and jaw slacked. It’d been foolish to have been caught in the silliness of their game, and even more so because he’d been snagged by his father. For a moment, he simply lowered his head and took the scolding - not your wisest choice - and the boy knew there would be far more inept decisions along his road to growth, vengeance, and power, but he hoped there wouldn’t be anymore that disappointed the King. He’d rather shine and walk between Deimos’ shadows, follow in the wake of disaster, ruin, and protection, the way the Lord of the Basin always seemed to safeguard the icy realm, like he was a part of the glacial grounds, like he was rooted to the winter landscape, perhaps as much as Psyche had been.
“Sorry, father,” he managed, staring down at the cold floor, hoping the apology sounded contrite and remorseful (because a portion of him wasn’t; he would’ve loved to have summoned their God, to listen to his speech, to hear what he had to say, to linger on the throngs of devilry and reverence), then glancing over to Sjal, her companion, and fierce (but frightened?) gaze. The prince thought about stepping before Deimos’ piercing stare and shielding the girl from its puncturing, lacerating depths, thought about smiling and grinning, putting everything behind them, as if nothing had happened and they’d only been up to youthful antics. But her gaze said it all, her words bore everything, and he loosened the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Stalwart, strong, even with the stinging reprimand resounding, reverberating through his skull, the boy drew closer, with a warm smile, something his mother might have worn, and his eyes lanced over to Deimos, responding in kind to the boldness of the lost princess. “She came to learn more about her mother.”
“Sorry, father,” he managed, staring down at the cold floor, hoping the apology sounded contrite and remorseful (because a portion of him wasn’t; he would’ve loved to have summoned their God, to listen to his speech, to hear what he had to say, to linger on the throngs of devilry and reverence), then glancing over to Sjal, her companion, and fierce (but frightened?) gaze. The prince thought about stepping before Deimos’ piercing stare and shielding the girl from its puncturing, lacerating depths, thought about smiling and grinning, putting everything behind them, as if nothing had happened and they’d only been up to youthful antics. But her gaze said it all, her words bore everything, and he loosened the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Stalwart, strong, even with the stinging reprimand resounding, reverberating through his skull, the boy drew closer, with a warm smile, something his mother might have worn, and his eyes lanced over to Deimos, responding in kind to the boldness of the lost princess. “She came to learn more about her mother.”
Erebos
i have nothing, but then the have is not as good as the want
