He wandered again, lost between the knots and gnarled edges of bitterness and rancor. The boy didn’t know whether to be listless, despondent, or angry, and too many of his days, of his moments, had been tethered by the latter already. So he allowed himself to be strung along by the pinnacles of anarchy and the chiseling, sculpting finality of knives, a dagger brushing against snow and rime, dusting over the columns of sedition spreading through his movements. He took a chance on the spiraling of open corridors and unlocked gates, where heathens and innocents gathered, some already blighted or condemned, others waiting an opportunity Helovia may never grant them, ignoring the painful edge corroding the nefarious armaments of his heart (when he and Enna had laughed and mocked through these woods – wretched little things). It was an open diversion, a chance to be the prince instead of the inept warrior, too ignorant, too stupid, too audacious to be anything other than a brazen fool, full of hopes and promises and incapable of fulfilling either. The pretenses were eager and fervent over the press of his skin, crisscrossed along the scars were tangible waves of affability and charisma, and bestowed upon the blights and blemishes and lines of swordplay were charms and enticements; a ring of muscles undulating and rippling below a mountain coat and a devilish smile. A child of death gentled by the rain, but never quite enough – if someone peeled back his layers they’d likely see all his virtues, all his benedictions, all his benevolence tarnished, stained, and tainted in some way, a little broken, a little disheveled, a little mangled and torn. The lightness and exuberance always sketched over his eyes barely existed, only when true delight struck him (and it’d been so long since then), so he painted a beguiling mask over them too, and the deep blue, like pools of water, like the wide-open sky, looked as if they were made from showers and tempests, instead of the brooding shadows crawling behind them.
 
Battered but never struck entirely down, his motions became more than howling chords of avarice and vengeance; a little lighter now, gliding over rime and frost, down into the valleys of strangers and the unknown, because curiosity was sometimes a better siren than even the outcry of death and damnation. The warrior’s movements were a practiced art; honed from his days of stretching across the lake and mustering strength in each particular direction, so when he twisted to the left all his opponent felt was might, and when he contorted to the right all his enemy felt was ferocity – and he maneuvered as if called to battle, hastened and summoned to the pinnacles of war. Orsino followed, a thread of sable and Stygian values, and together they were a picture of menace and debauchery, echoing past the chilling ramparts of the Basin and following the mercurial whims of a potent storm. He laughed as they sculpted their way into the thickening wood, ghosting through pine and fir, rampaging within brush and snow-laden trees, everything looking absolutely the same as the days before – and he almost found himself looking for Enna, for another soul to irritate and tease just to feel something other than irritation, but when he turned his head, there was only the vacant copses and desolate glades. Erebos took one breath, settling, cooling, the rising sensation of fury and contempt, clenching his teeth for the most minute of instances before channeling his pretenses all over again – back to the boy who’d always craved, who’d always wanted, who’d always been delighted with whatever happened to fall in his path.
 
Then he noticed a startling pinkish hue rising from the snow.
 
It reminded him of the dawn, when the morning sky gave way to dazzling, softened hues, when the northern lights subsided and allowed the earth to reawaken, and he found himself staring at it for longer than necessary. Sharper perusal and Orsino’s needling informed him that it was a being, not a part of the receding twilight, and he chuckled to himself, shaking his head because he was an idiot and the world enjoyed reminding him of his stupidity. When his mind finally caught up with his eyes, he noted more than just the dulcet finery of the mare, but smiles, hums, happiness floating and pervading the scenery, and perhaps he bit a piece of it off for himself, because a grin managed to make its way through his façade and become real. His was more devilish and dipped into mischief; made for demons and vagabonds, however benevolent and appealing, lips crinkled into a boyish simplicity. “Hello!” He offered a warm utterance of his vocals from yards beyond, crossing along the path of pine eagerly, easily, bobbing his head once in respect before proffering more of his words, more of his fervency. “I’m Erebos, from the Aurora Basin.” Curiosity played a greater part of his allure, and his head tipped a bit in wonder, pondering how she managed to stay so (seemingly) enlightened, buoyant and light in a world destined to destroy the shards of innocence and beneficence. “Who are you?”

  More boldness spiked through the air – and he laughed because she exhibited it too, and the mischief, the devilry, the chicanery, the dark, daring bits of his blood thought it was monstrously entertaining and funny. He savored dauntlessness and valor, strung it together in the whole of his muscles and the fibers of his flesh, clenched it between his teeth, stole it from the heavens and wrenched it from the earth – plunged headlong into fire and brimstone when fearlessness gathered behind his eyes and consumed every essence of his blackening soul. Amused, diverted, he paid in kind to her sweeping bits of exuberance and audacity, pledged mirth through the length of his Cheshire grins and dashing arch to his brow as she inspected him, as he became part of her riveting conjectures. He even extended his chin forwards so she might have a finer perusal (and suddenly he chuckled again, let the reverberation pierce through his soul – as if he was back with Aithniel, Rikyn, and Adelric, running rampantly through streets and villas of mountains and snow, thrown together with foretold treachery and delusions of grandeur). He beamed, crowned her with the opportunities to examine and scrutinize the lengthy tufts of hair growing from beneath his muzzle, a careful blend of ivory and sable, folds of the Stygian sea and the ivory snow. “Thank you,” he marveled in a show of nods and bestowals, because she’d given him a gift in the form of assurance (if only for the tufts of fur laden along his jowls), and he’d been bereft of it for too long. “I like your smile,” he winked, in a show of great faith and insolence (for he was a beast dragged from Lucifer endeavors; impudence and sedition had a face and it was poised between embers, allure, and appeal), neither bothered nor entangled by her candidness. It was refreshing to not be caught in the knots and gnarls of anger and wretchedness, or to attempt to decipher a situation he was unfamiliar with – but silliness, antics, nefariousness he knew well.
 
So he watched her carefully, followed her movements and motions with impish intent, the kind found in naughty children waiting for the right moment to strike – but she appeared aloof, no longer riveted on one thing or another, painting the backdrop in splashes of pink and white. The prince’s head tilted again and Orsino grumbled from somewhere beyond (ignored – there were no enemies or adversaries to rip, maim, and tear here, just a curious girl who liked his hair and came from nowhere, nowhere at all). “We all start from somewhere.” Erebos snorted a bit and arched his brow again at her, like his sister had done many times before when she called his bluff, knowing, understanding, full well that she eclipsed and hid the bounty of secrets and enigmatic twists beyond the rosy veil. The defiance clawed and rasped at him once more, curled and coiled over his tongue (wanting to know more than just the overall nothingness), but she managed to twist him in another direction. “No, this isn’t my home.” The ebon kitsune shuffled to and fro along a channel of wood and brush, and the warrior laughed, kindly, not entirely savage, not entirely virtuous. “This is the Threshold, the gateway to Helovia.” He turned a little, gesturing with his chin towards the north, where the lights flickered in various hues, where the auroras gathered, where the summits reached for the skies and couldn’t be denied their constant aching, yearning desires to be dominant and enduring. “The Basin is this way – through some valleys and wood, until you come upon one narrow path to the mountains.” His head swung back towards her, the regal grin still in place. “Where do you want to go from here?”