Does he expect a gold star for stepping out of his comfort zone and apologizing for his absence? Does he believe I will so readily accept it, when he hasn't even proved it yet to me? Where are my brethren now, Volterra? Can you name each child you've helped to produce? I almost draw back my lip in disgust at the idea that it's all just a lie, that he has already forgotten the names of his sons, that he cares for them as much as he does Mother (none at all). Those measly few words and an attempt at training me to fight is nothing, a spur of the moment idea Volterra probably thought up in an attempt to bond with me.

Ears fall back, eyes reflection the emptiness of the inside (how stupid is he?)— it takes me a moment to remember that Volterra is no matured man, that he has lived on this soil barely longer than I have. He is no aged warlord, conqueror of many cities, a powerful beast with dangerous strategy. He is still a boy (although not physically). We are barely different, with innocence and painful youth strung across shared ivory features. He may have not suffered as I have (do you know the pain of maternal love?), but he has certainly shed the curious newborn traits. All children have it, an itching urge meant to take them to far away places, imagined by wild minds and brought to life through vivid images. Where had that gone? When was it all of that childish bliss shriveled up and eroded away?

Perhaps in that first bite, when my cries for attention (now silent, but still there) became too unbearable for Mother— when her motherly instincts were just beginning to blossom and the overwhelming emotions took her sense of rationality away. She drew blood and left a deep, rough scar against my cheek— my first taste of physical abuse. From there it only worsened, scattered scarring against brindled hide, worn in shame spite. She may believe that she was disciplining me, knocking me down a peg every time blunt teeth pierced thick skin, but it was only making me stronger. I was becoming impervious to the pain of her love, melting away against the anger that kept her going, silently withdrawn into myself.

And Volterra knew nothing of it. He knew nothing of the wounds I've born, of the blood that's dripped down my shoulders and stained the forest floor— he's clueless to it all. He doesn't know the emotional trauma, the insults that leached under my skin and brought me down (I've grown stronger now), the suffering of a young boy who cannot comprehend why his mother would do such terrible things to him. "Where were you?" I ask, hushed words caught up in the wind, attention solely on the man before me. Where had he been when I needed him? When I slept alone, hidden from Mother's sight, licking frantically at the wounds that wouldn't stop bleeding (I was so afraid). What gave him the right to just forget about me (about her, about us)?

That's where the bitter hatred seeds itself, planted in the stone heart of a broken boy king, burning with passionate disgust. It grows off of the knowledge of Volterra's obliviousness, to his stupidity— nourished by the lack of understanding of his fruitfulness, how he waited eight long months to realize that the little trysts are more than little, that putting two and two together adds up. He chose to seek out Zhu, to find that offspring— to teach him what Volterra may have never taught me (and may never teach Sabre).

I do not ask, I tell. I tell Volterra what I know he may never hear of anywhere else, a well guarded phenomena that he may have carelessly ignored until it stitched itself back together (if it ever did). The tear in this family could not be ignored, could not be thrown aside to never be doted on again. "Sabre is gone." There is a glance to the side, an ear falling back and the sour taste of defeat clinging to my tongue. I hope he's happy to know that I'm going out of my way to share such precious news, struggling to overcome the knotted throat and narrowed brows that accompany the truth. I'd thrown away hours, calling helplessly into the dark of the forest, praying for my twin's return. She has yet to call back.

"She's been missing for weeks, maybe months." I shrug like I don't care (I do), swallowing the sorrow that claws at my throat as I try to grasp at the reality of her absence. The stages of denial are over now, the after effects of the painstaking process prominent in the distant bubblegum gaze, caught up in the smudged horizon. Does Volterra even care? Would he have ever even known? No, he wouldn't have. He would have kept living, believing that his one daughter was healthy and beautiful despite never meeting her— did he even plan on meeting her ever? My stomach churns at the idea that perhaps she hadn't even crossed his mind, that he has pushed her into the dark recesses of that empty skull, valuing sex (and battle) more than his own children.

"Well then, teach me your language. And when I'm physically able, teach me of fighting, of battle strategy and all that you know of it." That is my simple request, all that I seek (for now). When my body has solidified and I'm not suffering beneath the crippling lack of strength, when I can finally use the battle strategies learned.

"Talk."

kid