All my life I’ve been searching for something

He waited, head no longer bowed, but eyes keen and eager, ardent, expecting a slash, a beating, or immorality, because they’d seen what he was and what he could’ve become. Soon his eyes drifted away from the leaders (for there was apprehension gliding there too, swimming along his flesh and carving its way through his tainted heart), watched as more and more came to the Queen’s siren-shrieks and banshee wails, smiled a little at Enna’s approach, listened intently to the speeches, to the rites, to the rituals and convictions, to promises that could be held or fall all the same. The prince felt like a speck of dust again, naught more than a tiny bit of soil and earth, forged for minute steps and nothingness; to move another forward, for a small, miniscule destiny allotted and chained to other stars and galaxies, worthless and inept, as they all united and spoke, as they all clamored for their chances, for their opportunities, to advance from where they stood now. He’d been too idle, spent too many hours searching endlessly for chances that had glimmered only for a short snippet of time – then disappearing forever, leaving him to pursue shadows and cloaks, but never enough daggers. The youth wanted to stare at the ground once more, feeling foolish for stepping forward, for his brazenness, for his audacity, because it had no place in a kingdom, in a sovereign, that was trying to surge from the ashes (and it was odd; because he’d always believed in his boldness, and now it stuttered and stopped him cold, left him drained and nervous).

But Hotaru’s words coiled over him as she spoke his name, and he snapped his attention to her, staring openly (trying not to let his jaw drop), as she granted him the armor, and title of General. “I will. Thank you,” was all he could manage for the moment, swallowing down the boiling, the brewing, of shock and awe, touching over the cold bits of metal that was destined to be fastened over his frame, trying not to be haunted by the spectral notion of his father’s old rank suddenly sliding across his rapier. He took a few moments of self-assurance, breathing deeply, flickering the deep layers of his eyes back to the Queen and the King, son of the Reaper, born to play some strange part in all of their medieval games. The grin curling over his lips hid his disquiet and concern (that he wouldn’t be enough, not now, not ever, and why had he even bothered to try), the mischief, the elation, the buoyancy of a youth given an ounce of power pervaded the slate of his muscles, the warrior structure he’d been devout to since he’d come of age. Then, he took a chance, pressed his lingering stare to the others who’d taken up their cutlasses, their knives, their blades (Beloved, the shadowy mare, Arion, the promised Corporal), and smiled once more: triumphant and glorious. “My brothers and sisters in arms, let’s show the world what the Basin is made of.”

(something never comes)

erebos

never leads to nothing—nothing satisfies

but I’m getting close