Who knows who you would be without him.
 
For a moment, his gaze changed, altering from staring down at Enyo and her amiable chirrups, swinging suddenly over to Orsino, lost in momentary thought, even as the griffin’s notions suddenly began to assemble in his. He’d never even given half a second’s notice or inclination towards the possibility of not having Orsino. As a boy, he’d seen his first companion (Adelric’s, newly hatched and glowing), and simply craved, like all other things, wanted and yearned and hastened to have one of his own. It’d been simplistic and avaricious, like so many other schemes (when greed took over, when pride and determination melded together), and his steadfast sedition had encouraged him again and again to try, to strive, to take. He failed on numerous occasions, stumbled and bumbled, was forgotten, was barely noticed, until one day in the woods, where the raven had spotted him and presumed he was ready, granting him an egg after trials, after tribulations, after all the corruption, all the invocations, stored within his soul had tugged at the pearly edges of the kitsune’s shell. Perhaps it’d been inevitable, through his sheer will, through his maddening rapacity, through his mercenary claws, that they’d influence the beast within the orb – or Orsino was like this all along too, from the moment they connected, breathed together, in unison, as heathens and infidels. What would he have been without the sable fox – and the answer sprung to his lips in a quiet sort of snicker, a smirk, a gesture of soullessness only given to the kitsune, because the little fiend knew better than anyone else – Erebos would still be hunting, ravenous and wolfish, surging against the grain for his chance, for his opportunity, to have what he desired. Maybe he’d be just as dastardly. Maybe he’d be just as duplicitous. Maybe the hunger would’ve swallowed him whole, devoured and consumed until he was merely a piece of maneuvering voracity, a glutton for anything and everything, reaching forward with grasping claws and belligerent fangs. Maybe he would’ve become an unrelenting force, sharpened by the weight of failure again and again; or whittled, sculpted, lined by the edges of his demonic intrepidity sooner – a monster etched in indulgence.
 
He didn’t tell her any of these things; shared the bond of turbulent brothers and then scorched his gaze back to her as she spoke, as Enyo curled against his chest, as Orsino sniffed at her baby, downy feathers – caught and snared by a passing line. Her doubt was encompassing, a veil of loss, and he frowned at how easily she damaged herself, at how she plucked at the measure of her flaws and defects as if they couldn’t be fixed, and he wanted to shout something, anything, to take her away from her own vile desolation. He’d never asked about Etziel and his disappearance, presumed and assumed many things about the absent boy (perhaps he’d gone to his father, maybe he explored), figured he’d turn up eventually like the thousand other beasts who ran into the midst and mist, who followed trails of the forlorn, who wanted nothing to do with the world they left behind. But the prince had naught to say, quiet, wishing to proclaim his faith in her abilities (because he had it there, eternally lodged in chest), uncertain how to trace it over his lips – until ultimately, all he did was ask, inquire, about the little boy who once made castles of sand. “Where is he now?” Then she shook her head, a rhapsody of movement, and it seemed the subject was over, finalized, curt, a tempest rolling over her mind, threatening to overwhelm later, when she was alone, when he couldn’t give or grant any comfort. His smile vanished, his brow furrowed, and he was utterly lost for a series of instances, grasping at nothing, watching as she bent down, reaching for the baby griffin. His heart swelled when the hatchling inclined forward, little beak clicking, intending to touch the soft velvet of Enna’s muzzle, and suddenly his voice, though quiet, became steady and sure again. “What’s stopping you?” Then he smiled without the Cheshire motions or the dastardly whims; all determination and spirit, fortitude and might, faith forged in his tone, in his words. “You should find him again.”
 
Then she pulled away, and the world seemed right once more – no sooner had Enyo emerged, than Enna’s companion does the same, galvanized by the essence of the realm, by the newness of the empire, by the need for balance and restoration. His grin was broad and boyish as the wolf followed suit, a cub, a pup, marked by silver and white, a blend of snow and ice (perfection for the mountains high above them, for the valleys down below), a predator for a healer. It was perfection to him, enough to send him into a booming, exuberant laugh, a molded, tenacious smile, phrases following suit in their same wild abandon. “Congratulations!” His stare flickered from Mehr to Enna and back again, Orsino only arching a brow, Enyo looking on (more newness; more curiosity flooding through his skull), and a sort of teasing refrain fell from his mouth, permitted to be silly again. “How does it feel?”