my kingdom come

I have spent too long gazing into the depths, lingering at the jagged entrance to the dark caves. I am not scared to enter, nor eager to— simply standing, looking down into the darkness and listening to all the hushed sounds that filter through. I wouldn't be surprised to find wandering souls cornered by the cavern walls, to see all those lost childhood hopes and dreams I never had drifting aimlessly among the rough stone and raw gems.

My ears pivot back at the rustling, head swinging to get a look at the child who approached. Wings are draped at his sides, hints of curling horns tangled in a mess of black forelock— he reminds me of the Mountain with his dual horns and elegant wings, wielding the potential to be a powerful ally or enemy. He is a son of Volterra. My eyes do not even need to reach the skull that marks his face to find out that we share blood, the resemblance in build and coloration is enough to convince me— there's another one. Bubblegum reaches the glittering red eyes that watch me carefully, the same eyes that belong to Nymeria and Volterra (the eyes I do not have).

"You're a son of Volterra." I tell him, stating the obvious fact as my skin crawls and the idea of Volterra fucking more women reaches my mind, ears falling back. There are not enough as is, and he's only just recently learned of Sabre and I— what gives him the right to have more? I want to scream at this child, to stamp my hooves and demand Volterra understand that he is an idiot, that he can't take care of his three children right now, so what makes him think he'll be able to take care of four? But I don't express this fury, don't shout out at someone who isn't here, don't throw a tantrum over shit I can't control. Let him do who as he pleases, whether it's a stupid decision or not, I'm not going to waste my time thinking he'll get any better and learn from his mistakes.

The question slips past my lips easily, haunting my mind as I stare down at the tribrid boy— it's a question I will grow accustomed to asking all the rest of Volterra's children, wondering whether he's attempting to be any better of a father or still lacking (so far, I'm betting on lacking). "Have you met him yet?" It's distant and unwavering, the beginnings of a deeper (sweeter) voice lingering on the bitter syllables as they left my lips. There was nothing behind the words, a casual, easy volume and tone— this was nothing demanding or extreme, a question that will always need to be asked.

I turn back to the caves, looking deep into the swelling darkness that whispers of breathtaking waterfalls and precious secrets, tantalizing treasure tucked away behind years and years of illustrations and glistening gems. If I enter the caves, I may spend too much time getting lost. I will never want to leave behind the familiarity of the caverns, refusing to return to the surface where Mother's fury burns bright and her hooves and teeth seek my flesh. "Perhaps," I say simply. Perhaps I will succumb to the desire of exploration and curiosity, will lose myself in the winding rooms of the underground and forget about all of my problems while I discover new worlds. "Will you accompany me into the underground? And what shall I call you?" I place a single cream hoof at the border, where the dry plain grasses give way to solid, uncut rock— stepping into limbo, where the surface and the underground clash and reality blurs along the edges of my vision (although my vision has always been a little blurry there in the distance). Let him follow me as they all will.

"Talk."