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For a few moments, the prince thought he had him. He imagined Thranduil sinking his teeth into the lure, grasping and entangling his avarice into its long, gilded thread, taking off and dragging it across the meadows until he was out of sight, out of mind – the delusion was nearly rendered complete when the Laurelin angled off kilter, puncturing it with a sigh and a smile. Erebos struggled to hide his disappointment, wanted to frown, wanted to sneer, wanted to hang his head and growl at the ground (he just yearned for the other beast to be gone - didn’t he understand that?), but stared instead, clenching his jaw in silent, feral animosity. Pouting was unbecoming, his mother would say, but he had better things to do, more beasts to hunt, more destruction to consign, than stand here and ramble endlessly on about guidance and assistance from a fellow infidel who could only lead him deeper into regrets and remorse –
But then temptation swung in front of his gaze again, and his eyes widened, eager and fervent, back to his childish self as Thranduil painted another vivid trap. It was beautifully enticing, the allure, the grandeur, of another blade, capable of so much more than a rudimentary dagger. The youth wondered how he’d managed to snag it (then realized likely by outright stealing, lying, or charming its way out of the previous holders’ claws), for it was potent and powerful, alarming and intrusive, something every grasping, greedy, mercenary beast could’ve desired. Almost instantly he found himself shifting towards it, the gilded, forged knife lying somewhere near Orsino (and the little fox was hissing something, nearly incoherent between the appealing, argent glint of Thranduil’s miniature cutlass - Don’t give in!), stare riveted, fascinated, by the capabilities and enchantments promised by entrancing words. It could see things from beyond – in other realms, meadows, and domiciles – and he could only begin to understand the measure of potency and prowess held in such a minute weapon, craved one for himself, but for now, he pondered over the possibilities and meaning behind Thranduil’s smug commands. Would the demon be able to stretch his eyes past the trees, past the copses, past the fields, to the monster who’d slashed and beat Enna? Would he be able to put a face to another infidel, chase him from the great beyond of reflections, plunge his vows and convictions into the fool’s skull, into his chest, rip and tear his flesh apart?
He couldn’t help himself – he leaned closer, glanced down at the steel structure, at the finely carved filaments, breathing out a ghostly whisper, mesmerized by the potential lacquered in iron. “Amazing,” he reflected, staring at its edges, wishing, hoping, believing the opportunity was right in front of him, and all he’d have to do was look, then sadly, pushing the inevitable frown along his mouth when he saw nothing, nothing at all. Was it was all some other trick, one more ruse to send him gallivanting elsewhere, distracting him from his true task? He couldn’t chance a glance at Orsino – to see the I told you so written along the fox’s face. “I can’t see anything,” he murmured, gaze boring into Thranduil’s now, a brow arched, a definition of defiance sculpted along his features.
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[O] make them think they ever stood a chance
