Volterra's eyes run up and down the various slopes of her body, and beneath his—adoring? nostalgic? loving?—gaze she shifts, not quite comfortable with the closeness in which he watches her. There's a piercing purpose behind his red eyes that she cannot quite decipher, and it makes her uncomfortable. Her weight shifts from foot-to-foot; she exhales a little, gently and softly, before stilling again. It's all intentional, of course; the physical movement is a small and endearingly Nymeria moment, because Volt would know she would never show such invulnerability or discomfort around anyone but her brother. Simultaneously, her thoughts tangle and knot and unravel, incoherent and disastrous. It feels as if at any moment she would burst, because surely she couldn't be filled up with so many fucking thoughts and feelings that she can could should say without imploding—but she keeps her mouth shut and her breathing level and her heart rate steady.

Surely she's imagining this; surely she is simply deluded.

Because beneath Volterra's gaze, it feels like her body has betrayed her by waxing and waning in all the right places. He looks at her—he looks at her like she's a woman now—but maybe he doesn't realize it, maybe it's unintentional. Were she a human, she would've crossed her arms over her chest and clenched her legs together, but she isn't human, and she cannot hide her womanliness.

It doesn't matter anyways, she told herself. Didn't she remember when Lilómiel had hatched? Didn't she remember when she told Volterra that nobody could replace him and he could never deserve too much and that she loved him? That special bond still existed between them, the bond of blood that to them would transcend any other loyalty. Part of that bond was freedom from judgement between the two of them, the ability to cherish one another without exception. When Volterra looked, it was not out of filthy and promiscuous desire but because she was his sister, and growing up, and yes, she did look different (just like he did.)

Lilómiel's wings rustle and in the back of Nymeria's mind she can feel his concern for her growing. Perhaps she should've listened, or perhaps she should've cared more, but she pushed his thoughts aside; he retaliates with a sting and a bite. Apologies, complicated and confused, bleed up from her unconsciousness into consciousness (fuck Lil I didn't mean it that way) but the black ignored her guilty conscience.

Volterra's voice, frank and familiar, eases her worries more than anything. With befitting care, she steps away from the golden egg towards her brother. He is colossal—but positioned so that she could count each one of his eyelashes, it doesn't matter so much. An old smile twitches up the corner of her lips, guileless and fierce and adoring, the glint of Nymeria's teeth a study from the textbook How to Make a Man Fall In Love.

“It's never been guaranteed Volt, even for all our mother's promises.” Here she tips her head up, her mane in cascading curls and her eyes reflecting all their shared ambition and pride. "But you—you don't even seem to realize you will achieve more than Confutatis ever did in Helovia. You already have."

And pause for effect.

"But you wanted to know what has brought this on, didn't you? Volt, you already know the answer. Use your fucking head."