All my life I’ve been searching for something

The prince debated on telling him. He enjoyed his secrets, his furtive desires, his convictions wrapped up tightly in their wound nooses, incensed, the fuse lit, the moments concocted and ignited, bursting into flames when the time was right. He’d nearly had the Colossus before – in a gathered crowd, listening to the laments of a child who’d also had something taken from her (but not her life), and he’d shouted into the din, stirred the pot, boiled the cauldron, let it foam and bubble over, but the chance, the opportunity, the instance never came again. Another had gotten to the painted brute before Erebos, and he’d spent his hours wondering about them, speculating to the Sun God about who could help, who could assist, and it’d simply taken too long. He was caught now, again, thrust upon a threshold of doubt and waiting, just an endless, eternal pause button stuck on his skull, chomping at the bit, clenching his jaw, wondering when the serpent would rise from his hole and he, the vengeful, vindictive demon who smiled, who smirked, who joked until he seemed ready to burst, would be able to devour him whole. There were other failures too (the strangely hued beast who’d wandered into their icy midst for the sole purpose of stalking Enna and her child, the one he’d prompted into battle, but left with no satisfaction in the triumph), and somehow he figured Rikyn would mock his exploits, his tasks, his desires to eradicate those who’d wronged his companions. Perhaps it was worth listening to the derision, to the scolding and it’d galvanize him into more searching, into finding the tracks of a fleeting vagabond – or it’d just be another brutal reminder of all the things he’d tried to do turn into ash and soot, tender morsels of absolute nothingness. He held the truth tightly against his chest, wanting to keep it for himself, but in the end, his eyes flickered back to Rikyn’s, and he succumbed to those days of old (but for no one else, he swore a silent oath along the pinnacles and rites of his tongue). “Tortured and beat a friend,” and here he laughed a little, pretending it was a ruse when the whole thing was a ridiculous mess and made his heart hurt, made his thoughts whirl into seething torment, devastating calculations, and abhorrent designs. “Perhaps I should find less troublesome companions,” he even arched his brow at the last tone, indicating with a nod towards the bay boy of his encompassing nuance and existence in the stead and scheme of all things.
 
But Erebos wasn’t baited by the fake bite, standing tall and proud again, immersed in those noble, regal qualities his mother must have passed along; listening intently to the nothingness Rikyn had constructed around himself. It was an intriguing juxtaposition: taking initiative and then having it corroding and colliding back upon oneself – maybe the time hadn’t been right, hadn’t been the instant required, hadn’t been the necessary listeners gathered at his feet. The scion had always presumed Rikyn would become something great, something grand, something bold - they’d always had those dreams as children, and his brother from the mountains wasn’t destined to become another nameless vagabond wandering amidst crowds and heathens, forgotten, transcribed in barely legible letters. His faith was broad and keen, focused entirely on his blood brother, incapable of believing in anything other than his fellow’s prowess and potency. He watched, however, as the manacles of the Time God had worn themselves into Rikyn’s soul, as they snatched and asked for more (because the other had taken things for granted, and this notation the prince could believe), hovered along stones and pieces of broken parts. “Shall I add the offenders to my list?” He was serious, eyes steeled over, ivories clamped together, pondering over the antics of others, fiends and infidels who always managed to find a way to weaken another, to take something for themselves, to want and want and want with no thought to the stranger they trampled upon. Then he ceased again, tried not to become bitter, angry, hostile over the machinations of Gods once more, over the avaricious will of so many (because he had it too – they all did), brows crinkling together in careful, polished thought. “Do you think it’ll be worth it?”

(something never comes)

erebos

never leads to nothing—nothing satisfies

but I’m getting close