He could be deceitful. He could be surreptitious. He’d lied to their faces more than once, sometimes about mundane things (he was fine, sketching a princely smile behind the cracked walls of his nefarious heart), sometimes about where he’d been, what he promised to do – but none of it had been malicious, brutal, or asinine. He’d played tricks as a child, wound mischief through his grins, through his eyes, laughed and chuckled and giggled with such tenacious exuberance, wild and carefree, a blip of savagery running along his courageous heart, a blend of his father and mother, an intertwining of innocence and devilry – and here, Weaver mocked him as if he’d been stuck amidst this world forever, as if he hadn’t seen the outer realms. The General felt like laughing at her then, all her chiding, all her lectures, wanted to spew out some vitriol, some venom, because he was frustrated, vexed, and irritated by the way they all seemed eager to paint him (foolish, naïve, stupid), when he’d watched his friends die, when he’d come upon them beaten and destroyed, when he’d floundered and stumbled and driven himself straight into catacombs and labyrinths – rose like a fervent flame. However, then he’d truly be a ignorant dunce for not listening, for shutting out the voices, the discourse, the layers so many etched him through – so his ears pricked, grew attentive, noted she never said she didn’t hate him, and that earned a momentary chuckle, a sardonic nuance of air blown through his nostrils. He didn’t understand what she wanted from him – who yearned to be rused and snared by their commander? – and he tilted his head a fraction, swallowing down the remnants of discontent, equable, the days when Kaos had twisted the foundation of their hearts. The youth had no desire to do that to any of his fellow comrades; he wanted them to be brave, to be bold, to be strong and enduring, but not at the cost of his manipulations and chicanery. He saved those motives, those ambitions, for the monsters he intended to destroy. So Erebos asked into the air, still mighty and stalwart, pressing his lips together in a line again, inquiring about the wasting of time, when everything had already been solidified in their heads. “Why repeat the same lesson, when there are so many more to give?” The prince had goals, had aspirations; why bother noting the same one over and over again when it had stuck, strangled, and severed once already?
 
He knew how the world could twist, could turn, could annihilate. He’d fought fallen Gods. He’d attacked monsters. He’d drowned in the wake of someone else’s strength and ire. One day, he’d make them do the same.
 
But she could believe he was a little fool and he’d prove her wrong one day, reach out and flick her right in between the eyes with a noble smile and a bloodied horn – when they were all brilliant, blazing, bestial, and barbaric, the shining, nefarious oeuvre of the North, shattering hopes, dreams, and souls.
 
The youth turned back to the stone with its silence and vigilance, the weathered particles of the charms glowing before his eyes (and he tried to imagine his mother, standing there, rain and showers, happiness and sadness intertwined, shaking her head at the way he made himself miserable) – ears twisting back and forth to catch Weaver’s words of comprehension. He nearly asked about her aforementioned dam, but fell back into silence instead, pondering if it was safe to cross that threshold, when she held the dagger up to his chest again and waited to see if he’d fall on it. Do you think he’d seen the man he raised you to be? His gaze, hardened, nearly feral, swung back to her in confusion, in torment, pondering why on earth she enjoyed pulling on his strings, why she orchestrated cruelty, why she’d even asked such a question. To harden you came Orsino’s reply, a soft hiss coiling through his mind, because you are weak.
 
Maybe he was – maybe he was absolutely nothing that his father yearned for him to be. But Deimos had never spoken of his plans for his son, and instead, allowed him to roam free and wild, to learn, to muse, to explore, and decide for himself. He’d been independent quickly, roaming the earth with his friends (until they disappeared too, and then he’d been alone with Orsino), grasping and greedy, mercenary and bright, hardly daunted by the shadows flickering over his membrane. His heart hurt, and he hated feeling like this, empty, incomplete, with all the capability in the world but so easily marred, easily wounded, by everyone around him. The Reaper had never given a damn about what people thought about him – just followed his machinations as intended, barely bristling at hurt feelings or blemished features – and there was Erebos, saddened because one of his Corporals had challenged him, and he’d played right into her hands, stupid and dumb. The scion ground his teeth, clenched them together again, and stared out into the abyss. “No.” His voice was numb, colder, exposed to the weathered elements of soullessness, the forced acceptance of his idiocy, at being the exact simpleton she took him for. That’s all he’d ever shown them – bright, candid smiles, encouraging words, and blinding fortitude. “He said I’d be better than him.” He shook his head, fought the tremble in his limbs, the melancholy, the anguish, coming back to weigh him down, Orsino’s growling, Enyo’s clicking beak (disturbed by his alteration). “Those were his last words to me.” He laughed again, but it was hollow, bleak, ruffled and tethered to the layers of ruthless lacquer behind his gaze – brutally severing his own notions and outlooks. “How am I supposed to do that?” The boy looked to her then, lines of ruin and desolation, a child born from ice and death, from water and merriment, flanked by too many wraiths, too many phantoms, and too many agonies blocking his path.

Erebos

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