He watched the rest of them drift forward, trying not to do anything other than stand, witness, become rock and rubble and stone – otherwise he’d would’ve pulsed with frustration and irritation, notched another indented corner of his jaw. But there were plenty of distractions amidst the quandaries of lightning sparks and commands, Rikyn presiding near him (like the days of old, before they cracked and frayed apart), Ode wandering towards Wessex and hoping she’d oblige him with fixing that damned strap of his (she didn’t – and he tried not to laugh at the ridiculousness of the entire situation; that no matter which deities presided in front of him, the stag never seemed to be bothered). The General rolled his eyes, cracked a momentary grin, and assisted his cousin without a word, tugging at the wandering thread with his ivories, pulling it towards the billowing wolf’s cloak, and ensuring it managed to maintain security. He did naught else to the black beast, though there were several moments where he intended to nip at him for the sake of amusement, but the instant was scattered at the thunderous boom of the Spark God, and the attentions were solely riveted upon him, the blue prince, the young soldier, the boy who’d been abandoned.
 
Erebos had never known that Gods apologized, that they too sought amends for all the rues, all the regrets, all the rancor stored between their potent lungs and omniscient entities. He stood there, stunned, at the layers of remorse and repentances flowing from the electric being’s essence, and the only thing he could manage to do (besides start weeping, crumble into a puddle in the middle of the meeting, provoked into more sorrow, more grief, more agony), was swallow down the melancholy, and nod towards the Basin beacon. We won’t forget him was practically etched and sketched into the scion’s blood, because with every fiber, with every movement, with every motion, he’d try to ensure his father’s legacy wasn’t ruined, wasn’t tarnished, wasn’t annulled by the scarcity of others. “Thank you,” he said briefly, extending those sparse runes into the fray, bowing his head again – then listening to the ricochet of vexations after.
 
The Time God wasn’t one to displease – for no sooner had he bent his laments, did he begin to shatter the summits, the peaks, with his aggravation. Erebos hadn’t even thought about or noticed Hotaru’s disappearance, he’d been too occupied with grieving, with his rank, with ensuring there was something and someone out there willing to protect and guard the fringes of their empire. But she was gone too, and it was an altogether overwhelming set of moments: to realize, suddenly, they were without anyone holding them together. The Reaper had done so for what felt like an eternity; they’d never had a cause or concern to worry about the next King of Queen rising from the hollows or hallows – and now, now they had no one. He understood the frustration, the way in which they all played a part, the subtle segments of exhaustion beating down his brow, the way his shoulders and muscles ached after a long day, the way the whole land seemed absolutely desolate, running down, down, down into forlorn ambiguities. But the boy didn’t want to see them thrown out into the wilds, without a home (the one his father had always served – the thought nearly drove him to anger, to wrath, to contempt), and the God seemed to have understood that they couldn’t do it without someone leading them.
 
His eyes wandered to those named – the sea-girl Tiamat, the fairy Thief Aisling – and smiled, briefly again, hoping they could fulfill the promise of those left behind. “Congratulations,” he shouted into the rest of the throng, pointedly segmenting his perseverance, his drive, and his convictions into his steely gaze. I am your sword, I am your shield he wanted to whisper to them, he wanted to inspire into them, he wanted them to know that he could be counted on, because there’d been a time when Deimos had taught him what persecution and protection was, and he couldn’t go against it now.
 
Thereafter, when the announcements of who was next to reign had finished, their crowns assigned, their titles hanging from newly polished scepters, the General listened to the dialogue of Kaos and what it all seemed to mean. He’d been there, trying to tear apart the bone monster and his kin, witnessing one after the other fall apart, citizens and inhabitants of Helovia trying to band together for the common good, for the abhorrence at being foiled and tricked, and watching with cold, brutal reality that he couldn’t be touched, couldn’t be annihilated, couldn’t even be driven to oblivion. “We tried several tactics within the Marsh when Kaos and his bone monster appeared,” the youth proclaimed, trying to catch the God’s eye, attempting to reach towards the masses, have them comprehend just what they were dealing with. “No matter the method or magic used, it seemed to have no effect on him or his creation.” He wanted to ask the God if there was a way, a plan, a Machiavellian design to herald him from the marshes and drive him back into damnation, but the notion seemed stupid and barren, just lying there on his tongue, when the Time deity had already proclaimed he didn’t know. So, instead, the boy, with his gallant heart and mutinous, mercenary mind, segmented his vocals back into the crowd, proffering his support and notions. “I’d be willing to take some sneaks and soldiers to patrol around the area, and to see if we can discover any more information.” His gaze flickered to both new Queens, uncertain if they’d grant him permission or undermine his schemes already (forcing him to do it within covert operations, for his intentions were obvious, his unrelenting lineage both a blessing and a curse) – or if he was running another fool’s errand, leaning too far out for any purpose but ruin and disaster.