Once, very long ago, so long ago that Erebus had nearly forgotten about it, life was different.

Back then, Evelia visited during any ordinary day, her smile easy and her hands busy as she cooked with Erebus in the small, warm kitchen. He recalled his father’s loud, genuine laugh when Evelia said something clever, his eyes crinkling in the corners with his own wide grin. She’d laughed more, talked more, and spent more time with Erebus. She used to bring books, he thought, not reports of missions or tales from distant villages in the Twilight Kingdom regarding the rapidly declining food supply or the increased pollution of the few clean rivers that twisted lazily around the land. Her place in the Council had robbed her of her softness and replaced it with a silent, cold, and calculating attitude.

Back then, Damon’s black eyes held something a little less like disgust and contempt and a little more like love and care. Their free hours were spent together, creating safe spaces in each others’ presence. His touch was tender and his words were gentle, holding none of the bite and harshness of his demeanor now. Rather than pulling away quickly when Erebus came near, acting as if he’d rather die than come any closer, Damon had leaned into his presence, the way flowers leaned close to the sun. He would know; he’d done the same to Damon. 

Back then, Astaroth had been a little quicker to laughter, their smile a frequent visitor on their lips, their hands bandaged from cuts given by the paper on the books they read and loved. They were quieter now, preferring the shadows to their beloved sunshine, training until their hands grew rough and worn from swinging their sword, serious and unforgiving, carved of stone. 

Erebus’ chest ached for those times. It had been so much easier. People to care for him, people to watch over him, people to laugh with him, people to love him. Some days, he wanted to let everything else go. He wanted to go back to them. To then. 

But he knew he couldn’t. This was where he belonged; this is what he had to do. The sacrifices along the way would be worth it, Erebus reminded himself, once he could change everything. He would be the one to remake the world.

“So deep in thought, little King. What’s on your mind?”

The former Astanian King peered between the bars of his prison cell, his golden eyes amused.

Well, prison was a bit of an overstatement. 

In reality, Erebus had felt increasingly guilty about the state in which Zephyrus had been left by his father, the former Demon King. He’d continued to make changes to the cell for the King’s comfort, until it ended up looking more like a noble’s room than a space meant to detain. Perhaps that had been a mistake, he speculated. The King seemed to be under the impression that Erebus was fond of him. 

“What does it matter to you?” Erebus said as coldly as he could manage.

“Please. You’ve kept me here for over a decade or so,” he said flippantly. “I think that, by now, I’m quite familiar with your moods.”

“It’s not my fault that your prison is in the quietest part of the castle,” Erebus insisted, spinning his crown around his index finger. “It’s easy to think here.”

“Well,” Zephyrus responded, “it actually is your fault.”

Erebus had nothing to say to this. Instead, he snorted and placed his crown back on his short, messy black curls. Visiting this prison was useless. 

“You’re turning nineteen soon, are you not?”

The King’s words froze Erebus in his tracks. 

“In a week,” Erebus said softly, his surprise inducing an honest response.

“You’re a few months younger than my son, then,” Zephyrus replied with a small, pained smile. His fingers twitched, as if they longed to summon the winds of Astania. “He turned nineteen late October.”

When Erebus remained silent, Zephyrus continued on. “I missed his last fourteen birthdays. I wonder if he still remembers me. Do you think he remembers me, little King?”

He wanted to say something kind. Something comforting. He wanted to ask about his son, the crown prince. He wanted to tell him that it would be alright, that he could see him someday soon. 

Instead, he uttered three harsh, simple words: “I don’t care.”

Surprised by his own cruelty, Erebus whirled around and walked down the echoing, frigid hallway towards the stairs that would release him back into the bustling, noisy castle, trying to shake the weight of his words off of his already burdened back.