Erebos was a collection of too many elements bound together, and they all reflected back in his form, in his charisma, in his possession, conforming to the princely, regal, chaotic balance of his stature. His father’s darkness, death and desecration, damnation and Mephistophelean regard, had been an adornment in his blood since his birth – soothing, bewitching, intoxicating, a drum right behind his ears, nestled in his skull, in his head, in his mind, conspiring and unwinding. It was a nourishing, delicious toxin, available whenever he craved it – when hate plunged a little too deep, when wrath couldn’t be contained, when all he ever wanted, yearned, or longed for was the destruction of his enemies, was the heartless, remorseless fall of their bodies, the sway of their frames as they were sent to Hell.
 
He’d been made from his grandfather’s fire too – bright and blistering, scalding and hot, granting him ambitions and dreams, forbearance and pride. It crackled and seethed, embers sifting through his bones, rolling through his lungs, never ash, never soot, but always a boiling, brewing, promise; where convictions nestled, where oaths were granted, where assurances were bound by flames and tempests. Vengeance was a kindling, an incensed blast of infernal allure, and he’d chased it down, listened to the crackle behind his eyes, immoral and iniquitous, ablaze and alive. Maybe they made him desire too, eternally unsettled and wanton, restlessly searching for a means to an end when there truly never would be – he’d snag and grasp one thing only to want more.
 
Then, for days, he could be soaked in the deluge of water, craving its freedom, its recklessness, its beauty, and its allure, the ways in which its power was never tested, always known. His mother had been rain, gentle, beautiful droplets cascading in harmonious rivulets, and he’d blended, melded, molded to her sonnets and laments, known what it was to cherish, to smile, to laugh amidst the sea, the fish, the brine. Every so often he was enticed by its majesty, by its glory, by its absolute certainty, by its necessity – as if one day too his name would be so renowned, so familiar, so known. Perhaps that was why he felt the foam, the surf, the swell hit his face now, cause him to close his eyes as the surface rippled beneath his feet, as he smelled the salty air and the wild, untamed bracken – imagining the fathoms burying all his faults, all his flaws.
 
Mother, he almost called into the swirling paradise of wind and tides, to see if she would answer, to see if she would cry back, to see if the gulls remembered her name, to see if there were any traces of her left.
 
But Orsino’s hissing curled through their connection, and he was forced back to reality. Another, the little fox beckoned, and the scion turned his head to glance at a child nestled by the curl and coil of dampened sand and dunes, incapable of reaching him any further. There were snippets, seconds, where he thought to race into the current and leave the other boy to his own devices, but the subtle familiarity of his figure, the white skull adorning his cranium – either painted or earned – caused him to cease the abrupt movements.
 
He looked like Volterra.
 
Erebos wasn’t sure where they stood, he and the stag of bones and dragons, both intentionally rattling and antagonizing the other at their prior meeting; neither coming away wounded. The lad could have been one of Volterra’s – the similarity was striking, but he couldn’t presume. The boy reached out by voice instead of movements, and the prince stood still, a king of the tides, a grin growing over his features at the simple statement, Cheshire and charming, young and charismatic, answering in a boisterous echo. “What can you do?”

Erebos

i have nothing, but then the have is not as good as the want