For every line of blood cut into her skin, his heart broke a little. In their absent fixtures grew corrosion, bitter resentment, tangible spider webs of cracked, etched, scorned abhorrence, acrid and incensed. They drew tiny rivulets of ice and contempt amidst the gallery of gallantry and valor, poisoning the pieces and shards that were once bright, beautiful things. Their luminous particles dimmed, solidified into sharp, haunting corridors, vessels that carried blood and fury, keen, eager to cut, eager to pierce. He didn’t feel Orsino shudder through both of them, he didn’t feel anything, anything at all but the impalement of sorrow and the judgment of nothingness; the wasted, empty conjecture of everything he’d tried to be and failed to do. The boy could barely look at her, because all he saw were his fleeting promises, his ravenous convictions, his perilous attempts to be something for someone flicker and die – and the weight of anger was too raw, grinding against his bones, straining at his seams, rasping and raking down his spine. He flinched, backed away as she cried out, too embroiled in shame, closing his eyes and trying to fight off the paralyzing notions that he’d disappointed her too (he wasn’t there, he was never there when someone needed him the most). He was always too late, always too slow, always two steps behind, and it was sickening, irritating, incensing to know those he cared about most couldn’t depend on him to save them. What had he been doing with his time? Did anything he attempt truly matter? When he swore vengeance, when he aimed for justice, why did more pain pile up? Why couldn’t he vanquish the right foes? Why couldn’t he massacre the demons who walked this earth? Why did he constantly try and try again, and feel no success?
 
He could barely hear her over the din echoing through his skull, over the rising tide of wrath, of loathing, spiraling along his soul – too infuriated, too passionate, too ardent to do anything but stare at the cave walls, and then down to her broken frame, blinking away the last of his tears. I’m okay she said, but still didn’t tell him, didn’t say who had torn her apart and left her to rot, wither, and decay in the dark, and he stood there, a massive sculpture of disaster and catastrophe, hoping for a way to slaughter, devour, and flay an unknown beast. His body trembled, shuddered, at the strangling noose of her fears, at the thought of never seeing her alive again, the last image of her down by the lake, or ensuing ridiculous antics in the Threshold would’ve been all he had left - and he swallowed back the bile rising along his lips, the horror, the rage, and the anger sliding its way upon his skin and becoming molten fire. Erebos burned from the inside out while she spoke, while she mended, while she apologized (for what his heart raged, and even Orsino backed away at the quiver of acrimony). The soldier, the prince, the fool felt his head shake, numb, arguing against her proclamations of all his deeds, as if he’d done anything at all to save her, of her son who would be left out in the cold, dark, dreary world without a friend, and a growl clung to his throat. It was rough and grating, like chains, like nails, like a hissing coil, twisting and turning down through his essence. "I didn't do anything. You shouldn't have-" he ceased for a moment, choked on the words he wanted to say, and then blistered others across his tongue, trying to finish them with clenched teeth and jaw. "You didn't deserve this." No one did, he wanted to say too, but she knew that already. But you, most of all thrummed through his mind, and Orsino wisely remained silent, caught in the shadows, lost in the crypt of violence and misery.
 
When all she said was how he saved her, he wanted to laugh – leave it empty and hollow, hanging like a tattered canvas, an oeuvre to lies and disbelief. He’d never saved anyone from their trials and tribulations. He’d never done anything at all – even when he tried, even when he proclaimed it to the gods and the abyss, to the heavens and the skies, nothing ever came of it. Arwen had since turned into dust, and countless others had disappeared. Naught mattered, but lord, he still wanted to try, he still wanted to be something for her, and he was sure, he was certain, if she could just let him destroy the fiend who’d touched her, who’d annihilated her, he wouldn’t feel so tattered, inept, and useless. He could fix this in his own way. "Tell me," the prince commanded, but it slid on a whisper, on a frayed hallelujah, on fury and vigilance, "Please tell me who did this to you," the warrior begged again. I need to do something, he yearned to add, yet, left it unsaid. 

enna & erebos

for you, just you