Perhaps he knew – the way that some monsters foreshadowed their final days, understood their time had come, when they’d committed too many sins, taken too many lives. Maybe he’d prophesized the prince’s arrival, the stormy, tempestuous General who’d refused to bow, who’d refused to give in, who’d endured and endured for this small, significant moment. By chance, he might have even envisioned the acrimony behind the pretenses, the blistering, unfurling, unwinding fervency, the callousness, the armaments, the ravenous, pervading tokens of a predator’s feast, just waiting, waiting, waiting, born to patience and control. Even as the beast, the fiend, the demon spoke, Erebos maintained a careful composure, a roguish complexion, tried not to betray every thought, every feeling, every eager, ardent urge to plunge his sword directly into the infidel’s heart and end it all (or to push, to pulverize, to smash him into the lava pits, watch the embers bubble and foil over the edges of his skin, gone, vanished, washed away from any memory, no bones left to trace, no fragments left to sketch). Annihilations scorched every inhale, every exhale, every raw, undulating precision of power, brooding, brewing, a puissant disposition gathered right behind his eyes, and at first, he wanted to laugh at his opponent’s request. Who was this tyrant to ask for anything, when he’d already taken, already snagged, already ensnared, already broken another? The traces of a sneer folded over one corner of his mouth, and he turned away to look at the lights rasping at the walls, pushing the iniquity down, down, down, hastening it back into bedlam, into his lungs, into his mind, into his malice, where the rampant decadence could stay still, silent, for just this trifle instant – he could feel Orsino growling through the webs, through the Machiavellian veins, and the eldritch, audacious trappings nearly swallowed and consumed him there, in between glory, revenge, and impending, sinister terror.
 
The boy pretended again – arched his brow, drew a masque across his features, acted as if it the whole farce was intriguing instead of toxic, was curious instead of chilling. “Truly?” He whispered at first, quiet, presiding like a concerned citizen, as his mother would’ve done, as she taught him to do (but resting there, like poison, like daggers, was the blood of his father, was the licentious, formidable power, was the temptation to simply end it all, nonchalant and vicious in the wake of his enemy’s last screams). Erebos was to be painted as Justice – but didn’t have her flair for the blindfold, for the scales, for the balance of right versus wrong; he already knew too much, he already craved feral renewal, nefarious outcries, and the longing, sweeping ache of vengeance. He was a meticulous carnivore beneath the gallant forefront, an immoral raptor, an indulgent pariah, but the moment that beast said the word Reaper he nearly flinched and broke apart, fumbled for his threads, for his garb, for his veils and shrouds and daggers.
 
Did this cretin know who haunted his dreams, whose figure he craved, what he’d already lost? Did he see the scion beneath his father’s shadow, smiling, grinning, and laughing, before the terrorizing end? Had he seen his father pass that scintillating weapon towards his child, feral, fierce, cold-blooded violence in the hearts and minds of connected chasms (because he hadn’t, he hadn’t, and he’d never had any intention of following his sire’s footsteps – he just wanted Enna avenged, he just wanted heathens to pay, he just wanted retribution for all the lives slaughtered, condemned, and altered by this asinine brute)?
 
Just run him through, came the echoing, ruthless hiss of his companion, and he almost took the plunge, almost lowered his head, almost aimed to harpoon his menacing sword into the monster’s wicked chest – but there had to be more, more, more, this couldn’t be the end, it couldn’t be so damn easy. For some strange, foolish, twisted notion, he wanted to give him the barest modicum of hope, so he could see it dashed away from his face the moment the prince proclaimed his judgment. “I doubt it could be so bad,” he winked and lied, foiled back into fox incantations and Cheshire whims, mercurial and turbulent under his layers – truly, disastrously wicked, condemned to a diabolical task he intended to savor. He could hear Orsino laughing within their chaotic bond, and it nearly made him chuckle too, echo across the grounds with such a vicious, dark sensation of glee – but instead, he swiveled his avaricious gaze solely on the harbinger of misery for so many lives, and waited for the ruthless end that had already begun. “Do tell.”
 

Erebos

clever got me this far - - then tricky got me in