kid

I narrow my brows, thinking about what possible futures could create such chaos that the gods need to intervene— that one of them has to murder in order to reroute history, narrowly avoiding a cataclysmic event by taking the lives of a handful of individuals. What a twisted thing. I won't voice or express the displeasure that runs through me at these vulgar ideas (who would even think of killing innocents?), instead keeping quiet as the demigoddess explains with a shrug of her shoulders. She even unfurls her wings (wow they're big) for a brief moment to express further that she doesn't quite know the reasoning behind the goddess' murder.

She expresses that she isn't entirely sure what her father felt after the death of her half brother— something akin to sadness is what she claims. 'Hototo was... more like him than I am...' "What's the earth god like?" My mind is a blank slate, the possibilities for the earth god's personality endless— a neutral god, a fair one? Maybe he has a temper (nah), or is easy to impress— I could probably sit here all day wondering what kind of persona the deity wears, but why waste that time when I can simply as his child?

"Well... isn't it kind of pointless to have representatives here when they don't even know what they're doing?" A brow arcs, wondering what things they could possibly do in their parents name (and why the sun god's child burst into flames, like shouldn't they be immune?). I shrug nonchalantly at the pointlessness of the demigods in their oblivious state— it's not my problem— I'm a king, not a peacekeeper or mystical phenomena.

I listen to her explanation on why she'd used the term boy rather than child or kid (really, if she had used that she would've been spot on). I noticed the contorted confusion that laid itself out on her canine carved features, obviously showing that she didn't realize I would misinterpret her words.

I flatten my ears and glance off to my left, huffing and puffing with displeasure because my name practically is child or boy— there's really no difference between them. Mother's unoriginality in naming me has finally reared its ugly head (I knew it would happen eventually). I heave a great sigh in protest, rolling my eyes with an obvious lack of enthusiasm in introducing myself. "My name is Kid." My title rolls off my tongue easy enough, but it comes out stiff and leaves a tart taste on my tongue. I'm expecting a laugh, `a restrained snort or tell tale tremble of her sides that shows that indeed she was entertained at how pathetically ridiculous my name was (because who names their kid... Kid?) "Will you tell me your name?" Really, it seemed only fair. An eye for an eye— right?

It was a simple enough question, but it meant so much more than an easy exchange. It was deep, a form of trust eagerly placed between two absolute strangers (could you call us strangers?)— we'd exchanged things much more important than names, you think we could trust each other now that we'd shared so much (more like she's shared so much and I've just— questioned everything).

So my theory on gods' children growing rapidly seems to be correct (lucky me), my eyes looking her over cautiously, suddenly curious on how it felt to grow up quickly— to wake up several months older and several inches taller (ha, I wish). "It all depends on the child— some are content with talking about pretty animals and shit," I almost snicker at the idea of me babbling on about buzzing bumble bees and pretty pink flowers (look! They match my eyes!). "Others— not so much." I was perfectly pleased with chatting about whatever I could— any information that my grubby little child hands could grasp. It was easy to sneak around and innocently play along, asking questions that adults wouldn't hesitate to answer because 'who would deny such a sweet child answers?' They probably don't even think I'll remember them by the time I've grown up, or my mind is so muddled and unorganized that I won't even hear half of what they're saying (jokes on them because of course I'm paying attention).

"That's— a misleading title then." Is my answer to her claiming the title of storyteller. "Do you ever actually tell stories or is it just a lie?" As fine as I am with lying, what if the children seek her out to ask for a mystical, harrowing tale? Will she pass them off to speak with her sire or actually listen to their request and settle in for a fable to share?

And she fights! As cool as it sounds, is she any good? Or maybe she just plays the part of the practice dummy and gets battered around (hard to imagine someone her size getting battered around though). "Are you good at fighting?" It seems absolutely outrageous to even consider asking her to later teach me to fight (maybe I will take her up on that offer to practice my magic), but if she has proficient skills— maybe it could work out? Except that she's much bigger and stronger than me (and will always be much bigger, I'm doomed to be a shrimp), and so her fighting style probably accommodates that into the equation while mine will factor in my size (when I grow)— so it's pointless asking, I'll find someone else.  

Golden eyes flutter shut in response to my next question (was she not expecting it?), again the words 'I don't know' come from her lips (why does she keep saying this? Can't she at least guess?), my teeth grinding together subtly at her lack of knowledge in these areas. Her words come out, drawling on in her uncertain response— what the fuck does she mean 'they didn't fight'? Am I supposed to think this means that Nymeria's nice and frolic towards her? Does it mean I should still take precautions? I need to know if I'm ever going to get anywhere with my aunt and keep my head (where the marking I stole sits on display). "Well.. is she approachable at least?" (At least).

"Talk."