kid

I raise a brow at her choppy response, curious as to what she meant by necessary (and as to why she spoke so awkwardly there). How could someone's birth be a necessary matter (little do I know, mine technically was too— at least to Mother), was it that important that something so vile produce more filth? I peer up at the towering ebony female, flicking back my ears as a sign of my confusion on this topic. "How are you necessary?" I don't tone down my harshness, meaning for it to be a snide comment about her existence. I was merely trying to have some fun, a little jest if you will. If I had hands to gesture with, I would have done so when I spoke, wishing to motion to the entirety of her being in a cruel mocking manner as I spoke 'you'.

I was poking fun at her, anything to make her react in a manner that wasn't awkwardly uneventful. Somehow during this encounter I felt like I was conversing with a bag of rocks, perhaps a tree (but that's an insult to rocks— and trees). If I'd wanted an emotionless void to talk to, I would have tried aunt Nymeria. 

I listen in when she begins to say something, frowning when only a fraction of a sentence comes out. Why wouldn't she continue? What was she going to say, and why had she so suddenly cut herself off? "You what?" I demanded, narrowing my brows and showing not a shred of regret at asking the question. She was only proving her disloyalty to the future king with such foolish acts like this, not sharing information was a foul game to play against me. 

I give her time to dwell on the churning thoughts within, the spoken syllables that have fallen between us. What is it that she thinks about now as I— the most important thing at this time— ponder my own things. I didn't need to hear her pity stories, her harrowing tales of her father or some bullshit that's supposed to make me feel any better. Whatever it is she was going to say, I didn't need to hear it and I regret asking about it. It was simply an impulsive action, a reaction to having something kept from me. I was no man boy to be keeping secrets from. 

-together. What a thought. I listen to the word seep from the ebony lips slow, oh so painfully slow, as thought she can't bring herself to say it. As if the thought of togetherness is repulsive to her, like the idea of Volterra and Mother being together is a terrifyingly awful concept to her. She speaks low, quiet and deep. Something is amiss, something I can't place my foot on just yet, but desire to. Why did she care for the relationship between Mother and Volterra? Why had she had such difficulty spitting out the word 'together' as though it's poison, as if she spoke it she'd seal her fate? "Why do you care if they're together or not?" I inquire, bubblegum eyes unblinking as I gaze at her, transfixed on the skull-carved features of the mongrel before me. 

Her announcement of Sabre and I being the result of a one time fling is no news to me. I'd known from the days after my birth that I was not going to see a father figure in my life, that I was going to be raised a bastard child alongside my sister. I was quick to accept that, because I hadn't gotten the taste of a paternal figure, so I wasn't going to miss something I'd never had. I didn't see need for one. 

At this ripe young age, I have yet to develop a knowledge of love and its almighty powers— it's fake promise of conquering all difficulties that stand before it. Even now the idea is nasty, an abhorrent concept of others swooning for each other and devoting their lives to a single other creature who will eventually cease to exist. I bitterly resent those happy, prancing fools with all my might, their heads clouded with all too bright fantasies about things that aren't going to benefit anyone but themselves. There are more important things to admire— me for instance. 

At my question, she forgets being a stoic statue of stone and snaps her attention to my skeletal features, ears leaning too far forward far too quick. Her reaction is immediate, and the game is afoot. I witness the shift in her cold visage, in the way her eyes are frantically pulled to me at the question I produce. My lips twitch as I taste victory upon my tongue, sweet and splendid. 

She speaks, mentioning the Riftian wars. That I know nothing of, and it peeks my interest. The mention of war sends a shiver up my spine, prickling and exhilarating as the word befalls her lips. I am all too young to know the adrenaline pumping, pulse pounding, bone rattling excitement and joy of war, but I can feel that I was meant for it— deep in the marrow of my bones I know. I know that I hail from warlords and conquerors, from gunmen and bandits alike, I am the conjoining of two separate bloodlines— an ultimate breed made for the destruction and pillage of insignificant lands. I will become a bearer of calamity, a king of carnage and ruin. 

She has mentioned my aunt too, Nymeria. Tied to Volterra in blood, I have only met with her once. That was during my birth, when life was all too fuzzy and faint— her face only remains because our features are mirrored, our genetics passed to show our hollowed eyes and daunting teeth. We bear marks of death, tied at birth we are both bringers of massacre, bad omens to travelers and passersby— we are bad luck on legs, wielding power behind our white masks. We are fear itself, harbingers of despair and chaos. 

"What herd is that?" Mother had briefed Sabre and I on the herds, not dwelling too long on any of them. She had a resentment for them, like their names left a bad taste in her mouth. I knew limited information on them, but enough to know where they generally were, whether they could be trusted or pushed away, and whether I was allowed to wander near them (the latter two are disappointing— I cannot trust nor wander towards any of them). I ask for Nymeria's position because I'd like to know where I can seek out the one connection to Volterra, the one line that links Sabre and I to our other family. Mother seems to disapprove of this one connection— this interruption during our birth that came in the form of an unwanted relative. She seemed to loathe after the coal black woman and her dragon, but I looked up to her. At the time of my birth, Nymeria had been all that Mother appeared naught— she was elegant, mysterious, subtly petrifying and intimidating in ways that Mother could never be. I sought her out, sought for her to teach me her ways of mystery and guise. 

"Talk."