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The pale, stoic and most favorite son of Leviathan stormed down one of the many unmarked marble halls of his home.
And every resident of the labyrinth knew to avoid his path when he was in such a mood.
What seemed like lifetimes ago, it hadn't been so. The former Elliot Spencer had been the master of masks, a walking statue, completely without emotion and eternally cool.
Now, cenobites and supplicants alike felt the harsh, physical sting of his unpredictable anger. The Gash was thinning, little by little, and he knew that his weakness did not go unnoticed by his God.
He knew, and yet was helpless against the embers of sadness burning within him; embers that had grown into searing waves of fire. Every supplicant he practiced upon looked like her. Smelled like her, gazed at him as she did. He had tried to forget about that night, to erase every memory of her existence, but the mere thought of her lips sent his mind and body to a faraway place; a place where he wasn't so frightening to behold and there was no such thing as the Lament Configuration and a place beside her was possible.
The Prince slowed his pace, eventually stopping completely. He turned to look at the right wall.
It looked like all the rest. Grey, pale, weathered. He was so tired of the fucking walls.
As the former Elliot Spencer slammed his fist into the marble, his tortured cry echoed throughout the Labyrinth, reaching Leviathan's incorporeal ears.