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The stories had always told him the mountains were an enduring, persistent landscape, its members hardy, dependable, striving for greatness, for power, for potency beneath the rising sun and the frigid climate. He’d been born in its swirl of darkness and disaster, forged after the alterations of war, and so all the prince had ever known was to stand amidst his kin and country, proud, strong, stalwart, a dominating, commanding essence. His father had reigned for what felt like eons, all ice, all nonchalance, all cold, brooding calculations, as glacial as the rest of their world; and when he fell, the boy had felt himself crack too. Then other stars came shimmering from the Stygian abyss, when Hotaru vanished, when the Reaper took his final breath, there were others, not dastardly, not chilling, that were ignited and incensed, given a throne – the sea girl, who’d been christened into divine, oceanic qualities, who’d bent her head and took Deimos’ scepter (who’d been the most stable of all of them – consistently there). The General had smiled, had wondered, had pondered over their state, believed in their fortitude and might once more, because his heart was full of convictions, and they’d spring over the nefarious deeds, the licentious qualities, time and time again for the sake of the snow, of the peaks, of the valleys.
He’d noted Aisling’s absence, but didn’t bring attention to it, didn’t ask, didn’t question, didn’t query. His place was been marked for the battlefield, and he hadn’t made a stab into political factions, too busy alternating between spars, patrols, and general mayhem (it sprung on him in the heat of the moment, when he glided across the unfrozen lake and practiced against chimeras and demons, watched as they flickered to life in the glow of Orsino’s magic, until each and every one of his enemies had been felled by the length of his sword, but no blood ran along the rapier – not yet). Erebos’ motivations had been fixated on ensuring his clan of sturdy, staunch fighters became even more; that they’d thrive on the thought of rampages, of quests, of crusades – protecting, guiding, and fighting.
But he hadn’t been the only one who noticed – his eyes glanced towards the horizon at the sound of thunder and the bolts of lightning – and nearly winced at the culmination of all their efforts being just one more disappointment to the deity. Did the God of Time ever see them beyond a cluster of conundrums and mishaps? Did he see as they reached and scorched and pledged determination into their bones? Did he see them constantly recruiting, wandering to the edges of the earth to hopefully bring back another addition? Did he seem them bloody and wounded, marring each other for the sake of this damned empire? Or did he merely glance down when they were weak and weary, and trod on them further – diminishing those few, fragile hopes and ambitions still left ignited and inspired?
The prince couldn’t blame the God, in a way. They’d bowed their heads at the latest meeting, offered oaths and promises, and the notions seemed to have slipped away from one of the chosen – but now there was someone else taking their place along the walls and lineage of legends; and the name flashing across the sky in brilliant lights didn’t make him shake his head, didn’t make him scorn the earth, didn’t make him yearn to escape. Instead, as the swirl of letters formed his best friend’s name, the General laughed, great, grand, and buoyant, and ended it on a smile, gaze instantly focused on the edges of their realm, searching for the newly recognized Lord.
Above all the emotions (content, satisfied, hopeful) brewing along his chest as the three (fox, griffon, and beast) searched for the King of the North, pride for his companion was the most obliging. Rikyn had earned this, though his blood, sweat, and tears, through his actions, through his dedication, through all the turmoil, the hate, the trepidations, finally landing in a spot where power rested at his feet. The scion wouldn’t ask him if this was what he wanted, if he was apprehensive, if a certain consternation built up between his heart and his lungs (but if Rikyn ever said a word about it, Erebos would be right there, lending whatever sagacity or guidance he could proffer). So when he spotted him, near Tiamat, likely discussing the ascension, his mouth parted on an ebullient grin, a whoop, a shout, along the atmosphere, pervading in its lofty form – like they were children again, racing across hills, defying everyone and everything. “Congratulations, Lord Rikyn!” When he approached, he bowed low, a sweeping gesture of silliness and satisfaction, genuinely pleased for the bay. Their dreams were not so whimsical, in the long run – aspirations had melded and molded, and the charismatic smile emboldened across his features dared to last. “The General is at your service.” Then he winked at Tiamat, ignoring Orsino’s narrowed eyes, Enyo’s eager captivation, providing his own sentiments of amusement and diversion. “Let me know if he causes you any concerns.”
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