my kingdom come

The irritation isn't well hidden, my eyes drawn to the near pinned ears and burning fires behind mismatched eyes (it's disgusting to see him so mad from such a simple action). My face remains stoic as I look down at the significantly younger child brother, seeing what more this thief has gotten away with— bubblegum meets an ivory spine (Zhu's, that's Zhu's), a corner of my lip twitching in irritation at the sight of someone so undeserving wearing all the signs of powerful bloodlines. He is no prince, no child born of chaotic kings and queens, of ruthless conquerors— he is someone undeserving of such rich blood, such deep rooted history in a land he defiles with his presence. If he truly is a blood brother of mine, then I have no reason to be his friend, we are in an unspoken competition for father dearest's affections— for his metaphorical crown. And I— I will be the one to earn it.

"That marking isn't yours." He's making me sick to look at it, my mind having long ago associated such a unique marking as Zhu's and Zhu's alone (besides, those feelings for Zhu are for him alone— this child brings out requited anger and bitterness). I keep calm in this situation, body still (that's a first) before the newest edition. Did he so easily think he could slip between the cracks and pass into our family with ease, confidently striding in to take what wasn't his. Does he think that he gets it easy because he's nice— that that will take him far in life? His childish innocence is almost sickening to witness, how small and easily fooled that mind of his is (hidden behind our skull).

He seems to bite back (a seemingly shared trait among the children of Volterra, our tempers of fierce and wild things) at my response, so easily infuriated by my lack of politeness. Does he truly believe that everyone he runs across will tell him the time of day? "You surely must hit your head a lot if you think that everyone you meet will be so polite." I taint the last word with harshness, crushing the syllables between blunt teeth as I tell him how it is (he's been living so innocently for too long, someone needs to wake him up). This isn't some childhood fantasy where everything is sugary sweet and wonderful, where the wind hums delicate songs to you and there are fairies perched on precious fungi in the forests— this is the real world. There's nothing precious or fantastic here, nothing awe inspiring in the way mothers (Mother) beat their children into submission and obedience, in the way sisters wander into the woods and never come out— the way fathers get so lost in their conquests they forget that there are consequences to such pleasantries (forget to seek them out, to be a part of their lives).

"I know it's your real name because you didn't hesitate to offer it, you didn't pause to think of one to give me." My observations are keen, eyes trained to catch significant details in conversation, whether it be body language, the words themselves, the tone of voice, the speech pattern— it's all significant to note. It's become a survival mechanism when facing Mother, keeping watch for the telltale signs of her unrelenting rage. An ear will fall or her words will falter and I know to be prepared for the shit storm (it's seriously come to work in my favour). I was born an observer, to keep a close eye on the behaviour of those I interact with (a habit), to be tedious in watching each movement. "And you must know a lot about stupid things," you are one yourself. I bite my tongue at such an insult— this isn't the case of the Eagle girl, where we were both so young and soiled from the hands of our parents that we could handle such direct blows. This child was still so weak against the harshness of existence, still so new to the feeling of anger and fire in his veins— it would be unfair for someone so experience to crush him before he has a chance to blossom (not like I had one anyway).

His ears fall farther still, my eyes drawn to the movement as the bitterness in the back of my throat lingers, watching the child seethe at a distance. Let him get angry, let him know that shit wasn't always going to go his way. "You can do a lot with a name." I leave it at this, knowing well the dangers of giving out my name like it's some cure to a fatal illness, letting every individual I pass by know my name (know who I am)— it's a foolish thing to do.

Astarot sounds irritable with his squeaking voice and temper, like a child whose throwing a tantrum over a cookie. He seems to think he's clever or knows what's best, that his niceties will get him far in life (they certainly won't). He knows nothing when it comes to managing through life, nothing about hardships and bullshit— that life serves you a pile of shit some days (today) and tells you to deal with it. Every time Mother's hooves strike solid against my body, every day Sabre is gone— it's all enough to prove to me that life is shit, and I can't expect it to get any better. Kings just have to adjust to the situation, to give what's needed of them and try to adapt to any scenario as it happens. A king cannot let his people famish because he cannot produce for them enough to eat, a king cannot let them die at the hands of his enemies because he cannot strengthen his defenses— he must attempt to fix it as it happens. And if he does fall, he cannot lay in the earth's sturdy arms and weep for his failures, he must stand anew (stronger now).

"Because you just might be." Is the only response I have to offer, bubblegum meeting only the blue eye (I will not acknowledge our shared blood).

"Talk."