"Yes." Is all there is to it, simple, short. I don't need to explain anything more, don't need to elaborate on our relationship or my connection to our sire— it is all there, laid before us and awaiting our young eyes. We are brothers, the same titan blood coursing through our tender veins— our father is the same foolish man, but our mothers are far from the same. They are vastly different beings (his mother is the beginnings of a goddess, just like the Mountain), with a great difference in morals. My mother leaves flowering black bruises against my skin, lets the blood she draws cake to my body like some kind of humiliating reminder of what I am (worthless). His mother is who knows where doing who knows what, and perhaps it's better that way— mothers can be cruel and cold, nothing like they should be, they care little for your well being and solely for your path in life, what you are going to achieve while under her watch.

And at least Volterra knew of him— rather than spending months of obliviousness to his existence and trying so hard to make it up, scrambling to get his child's approval and bond with him so he doesn't feel left out. Too late for that. "Was that the only time?" What bothers me is that Volterra effortlessly jumped in to save his son, when he did little to look for Sabre or I— he did little for Sabre and I. So upon hearing him heroically fend off a pack of wolves to save his child, it makes my lips twitch with distaste and ears remain twisted back. The bitterness on my tongue harsh at the idea that he would protect the precious son, the newest, greatest son— he is a son with god's blood coursing through him.

But has Volterra taken his time to check on the rest of his children? To dote on Zhu, to dote on Sabre, to dote on me. He has spent little time with me, and no time with Sabre (but that's only because she's—), and he says he's trying. Bullshit.

He moves on quickly, our eyes both locked onto the glittering darkness of Helovia's insides— warm rocks were bathed in brilliant orange light and the howling winds from inside the tunnel swept up bits of my forelock, beckoning us forward. I glance to Tyrath (my newest, more welcomed brother) and begin the decent into the mouth, a spark of curiousity and burning excitement dispelling the nothingness. For a moment that deep seeded black that's hung over my head for too long splits and falters, and the innocence of childhood peeks through (what a rare feeling).

I wait too long to offer anything more to him, bi coloured lips woven shut until our hooves met flat earth and clicked up against the rough stone of the caverns. Through a clear wall of sparkling crystal the pulsating heart of Helovia could be seen, an awe inspiring mix of warm tones. "Call me Kid." I look to him for a reaction, a response to the pitiful unusual name, half expecting a laugh or him to ask if it was a joke. I wish it was, because damn what a shitty name. I don't think I'll ever get over it, how unfortunate I am to be the individual named Kid. That's like naming your dog Puppy or cat Kitty, and what of when I'm no longer a child? When I'm not a colt but a stallion? What then? I will still be called Kid.

"I hope your mother treats you well, for Volterra has a tendency to sleep with the wrong women." My mother for instance, who cannot register when she has taken it too far and has brought only ruin to the mental stability of her son. So let's hear it, Tyrath— does your mother love you? Does she tuck you in at night and fret over the scratch on your knee? Does she spit on you and kick you down into the dirt, tell it to you as she sees it? Is she even there for you at all?

"Talk."

kid