The prince had always been good at pretending, at putting on masks, at charades, at facades, at holding pretenses for hours on end to appease the masses, to trick himself, to yield into a more satisfactory outcome, to veil and shroud the incoming upheaval. He’d endured, he’d persevered, and he’d flickered apart too, because Helovia was never a stagnant, dreamy world where roses ran rampant and demons never tread – he’d seen them first hand, and it was only the beginning of the end now. Eventually, they’d be consumed, and he could feel it, he could sense it, he could glance at everyone else as they shared the same roughened sentiment, the same bleak outlook, and he still harpooned against it. He’d grown up twisting and turning away from truths, from realities, preferring chaos, rebellion, and revolution, but not when it came at the cost of themselves. Everything was maddening, tangled, knotted, gnarled, twisting back upon them with naught in return – the Time God split, vanished, gone into the midst, granting naught, no advice, no counsel, no guidance (what did you expect? Orsino hissed, and the General didn’t have an answer). Too many things went on at once, and he wondered if this was how his father must have felt back in the days of wraiths and disease, where friends became enemies, where companions became monsters, and there’d been nothing else to do but flee. Their ancestors had the caves, dormant and safe, a sanctuary from the incoming fiends and heathens. Where was the escape now? Where were they supposed to go? Were they meant to abandon everything – the mountains, the landscape, the summits, all the layers and power and dominance they’d built up? The boy wanted to scream, wanted to stomp, wanted to shout back at the heavens for something other than good luck and feral fortune, but he just listened instead, grating his teeth, locking his jaw, becoming enraged and despondent all at the same time, irked, irritated, annoyed, anguished by how methods and measures and determination hadn’t mattered. Nothing had.
 
He yearned to fight against Kaos, against the loss of hope, against the unwinding truth spiraling out around him, but it kept hitting him in the face, smacking against his chest, clattering along the stonewalls of his heart. “We can gather them right in front of the borders,” he answered instead, trying not to spew out venom, trying not to focus on the what ifs, the parallels of bedlam curling and coiling around them, bending over their necks like nooses, his nightmares born, tangible, clear, and monstrous. Erebos’ gaze centered on Orsino for a moment, on sending him out into the beyond to find anyone and everyone who hadn’t heard the signal, who hadn’t understood or known the world was about to end, but then was distracted by Wessex, who’d never seen the Gods (once fallen, he almost said, because they’d been dead before, but risen again thereafter). “We faced disease and monsters.” And we fought anyway, echoed through his soul; they’d fought and fought and torn the beasts apart (but it didn’t matter, because it’d all been a farce, just a cruel, ridiculous farce). “We believed them conquered and dead. You’ve seen what became of them.” Abominations, features decrepit and disfigured, morphed back into an unholy beast, incapable of defeat by their mortal instruments. Then, to her silent question, he didn’t know – he hadn’t seen the sea lady, their ocean Queen, and his brows furrowed while his shoulders shrugged, gaze focusing on Weaver, on Rikyn, in hopes that they’d witnessed her recently, and she wasn’t one more lost to the perils of their earth.