Erebos waited for the inevitable strike, the lunging harpoon, the dart, the scythe that would come swinging from her words; watched as she grew still, as he became just another taut figure in the melancholy, in the anguish pulsing through him. He seethed in the quiet, jaw tightening, teeth clenching, stare taken to rest on stones and rubble, remembering the moments he’d spent rolling the boulder in place, sealing his father behind the pieces of the mountain. He swallowed the bile clinging to his throat, the sorrow building behind his eyes, attempted to form a barrier, a wall, between his emotions and the outside world – untouchable, unreachable, one more intangible form amidst the pillars and the rocks. But his father had always been that way and his son had not; incapable of true nonchalance, of casual indifference, of a stoic disregard for emotions, for ties, for tethers, and he wanted to howl, bludgeon, snap, and snarl when Weaver only spoke of curiosity, as if the Reaper was now only the stuff of intrigue. The newcomers and strangers had never seen him patrol, had never seen him guard, had never seen him annihilate an enemy or chase down an opponent, run like a blade, like a sword, like a shield – to them, he was one more particle of dust, a name without a face, a ghost of the peaks, of the valleys, with naught to offer them but stories, legends, and chronicles of yesteryear. They’d never had to fight tooth and nail for the ice, for the snow, for the bits and pieces of rime; they’d never had to lead their empire to another world to remain safe, protected, beneath catacombs and sepulchers, they’d never had to watch this empire flicker apart again and again and again, try to breathe life from death, from desecration, and from ruin. They had arrived just as he’d ended; and the mere notion that Deimos the Reaper was nothing to them made his insides turn, made his soul ache, made his heart crack, spark; utterly incensed, enraged, twisted and turned from the bouts of contempt and the measures of agony. He had to look away from her, from the stones, from the tomb, and into the sky, off along the horizon, down the cliffs, because he was slowly flickering, chipping, apart, splintering into a thousand different directions, frenetic and irritated, exasperated, clinging to pretenses. “Stones won’t tell you anything,” he muttered, his lips muffled by their thin smile, by the weight of bitterness, of rancor, settling across his brow; and he tried, tried to find the goodness, the valor, in the harshness of his haze, and then he only hung his head and stared at the kingdom beyond – wondering when he’d be forgotten too, another token fragment of dust and ash.
 
Was this how it was always going to be? He’d wander along the trails, the path, beaten down by his constant maneuvering, hoping to pay his respects, and there’d be someone else in the wind, gazing at the ruin and wondering about the past? Would they shrug at the name of Deimos – entirely unconcerned by the legend behind the man? Would they fail to recognize a fallen beast that had helped to build this land? Would they understand naught at all, the bloody violence, the rampaging tomes, they’d stumbled upon, and give way to another interest, completely, utterly ignorant? And was it his job to ensure this didn’t happen, to tell them about the days of power, when he’d been young and stupid and ridiculous, staring at his father and never wondering when it’d all end? Do you want to be alone? She’d asked, he could hear it spiraling through his senses, along the ends of Enyo’s throaty call to Raven, blistering on Orsino’s vague, uncanny silence. Yes, he wanted to say, he wanted to clamor, he wanted to shout, he wanted to be left alone to cry, to weep, to sob at his father’s tomb because he didn’t know what else to do in his life.
 
“No,” he said instead, but it was quiet, hushed, cool, and only thereafter did he finally turn his head to look at her, all piercing shades, all glimpses of dissolution, rebellion, and revolution. It was a lie and it was a truth, and he had nothing else to add but acid, but savagery, but fiendish outlooks and a dim future: the youth, the little scion, who only wanted his father back. His voice regains its strength, its princely demeanor, but his eyes were hardened, his composure rattled. “What do you want to know?” (stuck on repeat; already chiseled once before to another intrigued Disciple, and it was as if she'd drawn a knife across his chest).

Erebos

i have nothing, but then the have is not as good as the want