All my life I’ve been searching for something

They came on a devilish whistle in the air, when the layers of icy, shackled crescendos matched the callous endeavors of infidels, crashing through lacquer of tundra and respite, pushing past the clawing marks of rime and frost. The pair gnarled and twisted around various degrees of irreverence, lingering long enough to touch, to scorch, to maim the seditious sparks corroding along blood, sinew, and flesh, mercilessly laughing when the mountains croaked and wailed their hollowed bellows. He could have howled, sung a sinister allurement into the summit, but instead, the soldier’s cackles and snorts felt nearly lifeless, empty, because his diversions weren’t long enough before his thoughts returned to the ways he’d failed and stumbled; and the fox’s were attuned to the sounds of mercenary, capricious ambitions, coming out more like hisses, more like growls, more like an instrument of the damned. Then the scion swung, front end lifting off of snow banks, twisting along the channels of endless desolation, and barreled forth; muscles undulating, contorting through the ripples of time and space, scars, blending, merging, sculpting, chiseling the labor of his motions, of his movements, into pure weaponry (because that’s all he wanted to be now – a chasm of rapiers and cutlasses, a ferocious, silent predator unleashing one tempest, one promise of vengeance after the next). His shadowy, blue appearance was a sword against the sky, crossing over the horizon in a pattern of swinging scythes and scathing scimitars, daring, defying, raising his princely skull towards the heavens and begging for an absolution he’d never receive. Erebos knew it wouldn’t come – he’d been anointed and consecrated as a child, as a babe, but those days were long gone, scratched and tainted, driven from innocence and childish whims. Too many prayers had been given to the Lucifer shards in his soul, too many bestowals granted from Mephistophelean, Machiavellian plunges, and so he was left to seethe in the foils of his anger, of his rage, of his inability to save anyone or anything – always too little, too late. He’d have to be more, more, and more still to ever be worth the measure of power, strength, and tenacity.
 
So lost in his own rapacious sentiments, that the beast nearly missed the appearance of his old friend – a dark object caught his attention from the corner of his eye, neither shadow nor piece of wood rising from the stark traces of the desolate world. He knew who it was instantly, once he paused, once he dared to stop and cease his wicked climb: Rikyn and his companion, traced in all their finery of gold and earth. His breath billowed in sharp, pervading puffs as he contemplated his next set of actions; to leave the other boy alone, just as they’d seemingly done to one another after Rikyn had attempted to steal from the Basin, like a ghost, like a specter, as if he’d never belonged and didn’t care if he ever had – but Erebos had perhaps been the braver of the two on the pieces of waves and sand, standing near his comrade, in silence, as Kisamoa proclaimed and the Moon Goddess reshaped the sea. He wondered if he should be now, or if they’d merely been left to the midst of silence, both too stubborn to maneuver past the choices of infidels and foolishness, if there would be a day in their lives when they could be whole again. The boy cherished Rikyn, but didn’t know what else to do, what to say, where to throw out the harsh truths, forgive, and forget. He’d never even had a chance to congratulate him on his bonded, and he studied, perused, the deer in all its embellishments and strength, pondered over what it was like to be free, to chase down everything you wanted (but alone). The youth frowned, ignored Orsino’s eye rolling, and instead of slinking closer, stood midst the fir and copse, like a portion of their scenery, a blade unfurled, and called out to the other cretin. “Are you proud of all the things you’ve accomplished, Rikyn?” It came out on a shout, on a torrent of laughter and mirth, ignoring the solemn, saddened depths of his eyes, pressing a little too hard into the mischief curling upon his lips. 

(something never comes)

erebos

never leads to nothing—nothing satisfies

but I’m getting close