AWAKEN
Plains of endless black that seemed to stretch through one eternity to the next.
That was what he wanted. That was what he had.
As his consiousness filtered itself back from the shadows where he had gone, Erebos' form appeared stretched flat in the center of these plains. This was his temple. The great seething mass of black nothing. The space that was Erebus in the Underworld. His space. His realm. His power. The power that covered half the mortal plane at any given time. The power that chilled children and broke the light.
He sucked in breath and rose from the floor of his home as a cross would rise, drawn vertically by ropes. And as he rose, the shadows clothed him in the simplest of materials. Shirt, button down. Slacks, black. Loafers. No shine to them. He stared out across his vast planes, his whim drawing up great rocks of ebony hardness which stacked themselves swiftly into a home of sorts. Open walls. A roof that shingled itself in gray mist. Nothing of doors - there was no need for doors here.
Sitting on a straight-backed chair, he frowned deeply. His son's outlet of violence upon him had been more thorough than he had expected. But nothing he could not endure easily. Nothing that truly mattered. A body was only a body. Moros could not touch what he was. Unlike beloved Aither. No. Moros had no way of harming him, truly harming him.
Except. For. That
His face was blank. Impassive. Nothingness. But in his eyes there swirled an agitation greater than he had felt in over 500 years. Doubt. Doubt.
"You believe that she will never leave you. But you have no idea what Fate may have lined up. As far as you are concerned. There can always be doubt."
Moros blamed him for the harm that had come to Styx. And Erebos was not so holy as to believe that he held no blame. He did not believe that the blame was wholly his. But he accepted that he had a hand in it. And regretted it. Deeply. To see your love, your life, your reason for moving hurt at the hand of another was enough for Erebos to snap. Family or not, The Darkness would have had his revenge. Moros, in the Dark One's estimation, had shown great restraint, at least in the physical 'punishment' that he doled out upon him. However. The threat that he laid at the feet of Erebos' dying consiousness, the idea of losing his wife... That. Was not. Restrained.
His hand came up to rub the back of his neck. They had fought so hard, he and Nyx. They had sweat blood from the agony each put the other through. The nights had been lonely; the darkness incomplete. And finally, through centuries of self-discovery and rage and betrayal and pain and useless, foolish suffering, they had found each other again. They had finally, finally understood one another. And. They. Were. Happy.
And now.
Perhaps.
He would lose her again.
It ripped through him like Aither's rising power. He hissed softly.
Around him, the walls continued to build.
That was what he wanted. That was what he had.
As his consiousness filtered itself back from the shadows where he had gone, Erebos' form appeared stretched flat in the center of these plains. This was his temple. The great seething mass of black nothing. The space that was Erebus in the Underworld. His space. His realm. His power. The power that covered half the mortal plane at any given time. The power that chilled children and broke the light.
He sucked in breath and rose from the floor of his home as a cross would rise, drawn vertically by ropes. And as he rose, the shadows clothed him in the simplest of materials. Shirt, button down. Slacks, black. Loafers. No shine to them. He stared out across his vast planes, his whim drawing up great rocks of ebony hardness which stacked themselves swiftly into a home of sorts. Open walls. A roof that shingled itself in gray mist. Nothing of doors - there was no need for doors here.
Sitting on a straight-backed chair, he frowned deeply. His son's outlet of violence upon him had been more thorough than he had expected. But nothing he could not endure easily. Nothing that truly mattered. A body was only a body. Moros could not touch what he was. Unlike beloved Aither. No. Moros had no way of harming him, truly harming him.
Except. For. That
His face was blank. Impassive. Nothingness. But in his eyes there swirled an agitation greater than he had felt in over 500 years. Doubt. Doubt.
"You believe that she will never leave you. But you have no idea what Fate may have lined up. As far as you are concerned. There can always be doubt."
Moros blamed him for the harm that had come to Styx. And Erebos was not so holy as to believe that he held no blame. He did not believe that the blame was wholly his. But he accepted that he had a hand in it. And regretted it. Deeply. To see your love, your life, your reason for moving hurt at the hand of another was enough for Erebos to snap. Family or not, The Darkness would have had his revenge. Moros, in the Dark One's estimation, had shown great restraint, at least in the physical 'punishment' that he doled out upon him. However. The threat that he laid at the feet of Erebos' dying consiousness, the idea of losing his wife... That. Was not. Restrained.
His hand came up to rub the back of his neck. They had fought so hard, he and Nyx. They had sweat blood from the agony each put the other through. The nights had been lonely; the darkness incomplete. And finally, through centuries of self-discovery and rage and betrayal and pain and useless, foolish suffering, they had found each other again. They had finally, finally understood one another. And. They. Were. Happy.
And now.
Perhaps.
He would lose her again.
It ripped through him like Aither's rising power. He hissed softly.
Around him, the walls continued to build.