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The General thought it was the finale, where the pieces all fell together, where they rested, took a breath, counted their lucky stars and their devilish incarnations. He kept his head steady, tried to mute the pain tearing along his side, and maneuvered his attention from mutilated beast to Vertigo – proclaimed damsel, observer of mutiny and defiance. She appeared ashamed and embarrassed, eyes turning to the ground, apologies muttered, and still, motionless thereafter, and he nearly told her he’d once been in her stead too (only he’d fought and become much of the same way, just a broken little sliver on the floor, torn and bloodied, contrite but not repentant in the slightest). Fear was an atavistic trait, passed on through blood and instinct, and he was still afraid of things, still frightened and terrified of the unknown, of friends falling, of family dying, but his audacity emboldened him, his courage, his strength, divided him from the regions of horror and trepidation, pushing past the unease, the apprehension. Perhaps Vertigo hadn’t been ready for the chill of the unknown, the callous disregard curiosity sometimes held, like a noose, like the gallows, a surging catacomb, an unwinding sepulcher, before its victim even knew or understood the breach; so he smiled at her again, listened to Weaver’s careful remarks. He wasn’t angry, he wasn’t frustrated, and he wasn’t vexed by the calamity and chaos spun along their hooves (lived for it in some ways, stood amidst the chill and inhaled bedlam, reveled in its decadence curling, foaming, seething in his veins). His features reflected it, kind and charismatic all the more, the prince amidst his people, his soldiers, his flock. “No matter, as long as you’re well.” A portion of him wanted to utter some oath, some proclamation (don’t die with a clean sword), yet, as the scion glanced upon her again, he know he couldn’t ask it of her; she didn’t seem eager to wield any weapon. He nodded instead, delivering another charming grin before moving on, stalking over the foundations of his warriors, listening to their responses (hardly surprised at all that none of them relent to torturous agony and anguish; even if it’d been there, they were tough, they were formidable, they were strong and mighty, hardly capable of allowing a bear’s claws or power to fold them into anything else but their unrelenting selves). Bloodied and battered, but not broken, and for their first patrol, that was good enough for him. They’d get better. They’d become something, savage and forthright, ferocious and unwinding, and the world would be afraid of them.
So they picked apart the bones, flesh, and sinew of their enemy, and he stood watch, not taking anything for himself. His gaze narrowed briefly to Beloved, whose blood failed to run crimson, but black, like a Stygian flow, like a ruined, marred shadow, and his mouth parted, half in intrigue, half in alarm, intending to call out to her about its peculiar color, when a familiar figure dotted over the rise, when Orsino’s hiss unwound along their connection. Irritated healer, incoming was the only warning he received, and so his attention swung to Enna, caught in her wild snare.
The youth hadn’t thought about the consequences of asking her to come – he was always one to leap first, puzzle later, obstinate and unyielding, born to thrive in the realms of the impossible. She’d seen him bloodied and mauled too many times to count, but such was the life of a warrior, thrust into battlefields and killing sprees, where muscles and scars dotted the scenery, where chaos reigned and acrimony savored, where the plunge into another’s chest was treated with reverence, and wearing the enemy’s blood was considered a triumph. So he expected something, anything, to reel from her mouth, a screeching tirade, an impending lecture, and his smile grew a little more sheepish at the foreboding nature of her arrival (disbelief and contempt emblazoned the chord of her features and he thought he’d be done for, eaten alive by her fury right in front of his troops). He attempted to cut her off, meet her halfway before her imminent explosion, a quiet “Enna,” murmured and crooned between his breaths; however, she said nothing, nothing at all, and he was more stunned by that than anything else transpiring around them. His eyes widened, and his lips closed, body heeding the call of sparks and time as he’d done so many times before, watching her jaw clench, keeping his stare entirely on her as the world pulsed and the realm seethed. Only when her gaze finally swept up to his did he attempt a grin, a small smile, sheepish and boyish, appealing to the lighter sides of her wrath. “Thank you for coming.” Then he watched her move on, paying no mind to his newly stitched scars, tending to the rest of their brutal force, when more movement caught his attention.
Not the end after all, came Orsino’s warning, tugging on their line of bond and bewilderment. At first, Erebos was dumbfounded by the strange motions – because the bear had been dead, torn, flayed, left only to bones and dust, punished for its attempts on another’s life. But he witnessed the cartilage and sinew reassemble, drawn back together in a grotesque, skeletal structure, never to be what it once was, on the rise of a frigid wind, on the decrepit horrors of a primal scream. The prince considered the sudden oncoming of ice shards to be the least of their problems as its empty sockets turned towards them – and he’d seen this all before, back when Kaos had revealed his secrets and duplicity, when he’d merged carcasses and allowed its mass to hunt, to prey, to ravage them whole. He’d witnessed the warrior from the Edge fall and never regain her mobility, her strength, her breath, and he had absolutely no intention of this beast, this heathen, being allowed to do the same to his clan. “Time to go!” He hollered over the howling winds, seeking their eyes, their absolution, their feral glances; Erebos wouldn’t be surprised if any of them hurled themselves into the fray, but it wasn’t the time nor the place. Their abilities would be useless against the undead; the world had already tried. “If this is Kaos’ doing, we have no chance,” he beckoned, nodding his head back towards the Basin, where there was still sanctuary, still a chance to live. Then, because he was brave, because he was courageous, and because sometimes he was just stupid, he placed his frame between them and the bear, intending to hold the beast off while they made their escape. “Head for the Basin!” The command was feral, quick, and blunt, molten on the threads of ferocity and iniquity – and one he hoped they’d listen to.
[Erebos tells them to get the hell out of dodge, then puts himself between the bear and his soldiers.]
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[O] clear your throat and face the world [patrol]
