All my life I’ve been searching for something

The prince remained wisely silent through the loss of smirks and the sad smiles, listening to the taut lines of goals ruptured and dreams unraveled; on things deserved and merited. He thought his ears caught the fresh, raw burn of entitlement bristling between clips and phrases, forced himself to hold back a snort – because he’d known the world for as long as Rikyn had, knew it wouldn’t part for anyone, knew it wouldn’t glimmer and shine for a soul who merely yearned for it to glisten. There had to be motivation, there had to be expertise, there had to be learning, there had to be something that inspired others to follow – and even if neither of them could do it, even if neither of them could completely reach the stars, Erebos would know he’d tried. Most of his wiles had never been settled on land or bands – they’d always been sanctioned to requital and deceit, to trickery and amusement, to the devilish court of diversions, to the rigor of revenge. They’d both been haughty though, drawn to the pinnacles of youth, bright, bursting flames, and Rikyn had spread himself across the vast terrain instead of wiling his time away in the Basin, casting and settling his sights on whatever was to be taken – layered it amongst treachery when he’d dug his claws into ice, into the Reaper’s sword. The boy stared at his friend, features tangled into a composed, calm fixture, eyes neither enthused nor drowned in hatred, immersed in thought, in pursuits, in the words of his mother and the merits of his father. “But wallowing gets us nowhere. You make yourself a place in this world. It won’t do it for you.” His eyes glanced towards the heavens, along the horizon, dropping upon the copses, the firs, the snow-lined boughs, the stretch of isolation that hadn’t been carved for anyone in particular, allowing the words to settle within the air, partly for Rikyn, partly for himself. “No one is going to move out of the way for you – you have to accomplish it with your own schemes.” He wanted to tell stories of how the Edge had lost, how they’d been driven into refugee lands, here, in this circle of cold hell, how they’d fought and fought and fought, and that was how they were granted their own land – not because they whined, not because they groveled, not because they begged, but due to their own perseverance, their own tenacity.
 
But Rikyn would already know that story. It wouldn’t make a difference.
 
Maybe he’d misunderstood. Perhaps the other lad had done just that: been driven into hopes, dreams, and aspirations, had carved something for himself out of rubble and ruin, and when everything seemed perfect, incandescent, real, tangible, right before his very eyes, it slipped away without a second thought. But Erebos understood there was a path for everyone – it merely depended on how far they wanted to go, what they wanted to achieve, and who stood in their way. No trail was easy, no wishes granted by the light of the moon or the rays of the sun. There would always be rubble, ruin, pebbles, twists and turns. His own efforts had been clambered, stifled, and nearly suffocated by the disappearance of murderers, by friends beaten and bruised for no reason at all, and still, he didn’t give in. He swallowed his weaknesses, he embraced his failures, stumbled and fumbled again, tripped over traps and wires, then raised his regal head and defied those who only yearned to waylay him. It would make him powerful. It would make him potent. It would make him a piece of condemnation, a signal of redemption, of vengeance, of lethality – or the weight of the cumbersome intentions would drown him. His greed would lead him somewhere. What was to become of Rikyn’s, already battered and marred, scarred and scraped? When he looked back into the eyes of his companion, there was the quiet, unsung menace and determination locked in the denizens of blue; wanting to stir, wanting to agitate, wanting to incense fire and smoke. “Everyone wants something for themselves. We’re all mercenaries.” Then he nodded, stared, and furrowed his brow, his speech lowered to a whisper, as if heralding and holding each and every secrets known to beasts; when it was simply what he’d experienced in life, what he comprehended of the world around them. “Its what you do that earns support. It’s action. It’s motivation. If they’re inspired, they’ll follow. If they’re not, they disappear. The world is fickle, and we have to adjust if we want it.” His stare, his glance, his body, fixated on hope, on glory, on moving forward instead of back from whence he came, lingered back on the trees, on the hills, on the spaces they were set to conquer, on the goals out of reach for now. It wasn’t a question of if they’d ever achieve what their hearts desired, but when. “I think there’s a place for all of us,” he ended with a tenacious grin, a lofting smirk, a callous snicker; son of Lucifer’s weapon again.

(something never comes)

erebos

never leads to nothing—nothing satisfies

but I’m getting close