kid

"Dear," she says. Dear— she begins, like I am a child of her womb, the fruit of her loins. Like I am someone she has known for ages, someone she has loved and formed a delicately close relationship to (I am not). I am nothing but a tired, broken boy she found stumbling through Helovia in distress, a soul to comfort while my blood stained my coat and my knees trembled. Dear, she says to me like I am her son, her pride and joy. Dear.

What have I done to deserve this love?

I crumble (once again) beneath her, a soft exhale that I'd been holding for too long— keeping it all in for months. I gaze into the gentle blue of her eyes, reminiscent of my rare trips to the sandy beach, when the waves were calm and cool against my burning temper. She is everything I've never had, all the maternal kindness and care that I was never given. None of those comfortable nights spent being adored and fed and praised, being cherished. There was always fear and aggression, rationed food and demanding training for a child whose milk teeth had only just grown in. There was never a tender second, never a precious moment shared between mother and child— the only bonding I ever did was take her blows and dare not cry.

The words reach my lips hesitantly, shoulders hunched as I gaze down at the cavern floor. I can hear the roaring of the waterfall, drowning out my thoughts (it's deafening).  "But why? I- I've never done anything for you— I don't deserve your kindness." (Your pity) When I speak, the words are hushed and almost swallowed up by the rushing water echoing through the cave, the fact that I'm whispering to the stone beneath my feet and not the woman before me. "Really, I'm nothing worth fretting over." My voice cracks, jumping in pitch as I tell her that I'm none of her concern. I'm not her son, she doesn't need to worry about my well being (if she does she'll have grey hair before the start of next season). I'm not worth it.

Had I been feeling like my normal, cocky self, I would have easily told her that I don't need her care. That she can shove off and live her life away from me, but I don't say that— not to her (to someone else, perhaps I would have). Instead I crumble, because I do need her, I need someone. I have lived my life with no one, with a flickering image of Sabre held close to my chest, a hint of affection towards the previously stiff and cold Nymeria— but nothing more (no one else). It has always been just me, myself and I. No one has been here to voice concern for my well being, to make sure I'm okay, that I am not facing any danger or struggling to smile. Perhaps nobody cares enough for that, turning a blind eye as my wounds bleed and eyes fall to the ground beneath me. I look to her, this saviour of mine, a guardian angel here to keep me safe, and I smile. It's as genuine as it gets from a child like me, with tears bubbling to the surface as I fail at blinking them away. "But thank you," I offer, hesitant and choppy as I turn my head away (I have to keep some of my angst).

I snort when she mentions Zhu being more like Volterra— I wonder if he'd take that as a compliment or an insult? Knowing Zhu, he may just see that as a restriction, something binding him to our shared parent and keeping him rooted where he is, associating him with us. He seems very keen on staying away from the family, on building his own name and reputation (have fun with that, Zhu).

"He and Volterra are far from similar, all they share is black hide and brute strength." I tell her, recalling the bitterness of Zhu's voice, the distance he puts between himself and the world around him— he is ice cold and glory, sober shadows and savagery, he is unrestricted, a determined boy set on achieving greatness without help. But he's also an arrogant shithead, and someone (me?) needs to knock him off his high horse (says the boy whose living on the moon), to tell him that trying to claw his way to victory without help is a great way to waste time. Volterra, although he may appear outwardly strong and resilient, blunt and unforgiving— he has (as Nym told me) a tendency to wear his heart on his sleeve, he is an idiot who cannot understand that putting your dick where it doesn't belong (seriously that's nasty) is going to have some consequences. Volterra doesn't fully grasp the responsibility of fatherhood, that as a parent he's supposed to be there for his (many) current children, not off making more.

So she does know of Astarot and Tyrath, ears falling back at hearing that they too resided in the Throat (did Volterra solely seek out women of the Throat?), a place I could not reach. I feel that I shouldn't care about my siblings (they are solely obstacles), but knowing the pain of being so alone, I just couldn't. Where are their mothers (are they with them?), are they kind to them? "Can you keep an eye on them for me? I know Volterra won't, he may say he will but I don't believe him. You're the only other person I know in the Throat aside from Zhu and I don't know where his edgy ass is. Even if I did I know he wouldn't do anything for me." I shrug my shoulders, trying not to look agitated at the fact that Zhu was unfortunately indeed following in Volterra's steps and disappearing into the same limbo he had been in for the initial eight months of my life.

Her lips seek out a piece of me, planted to my shoulder and grooming me carefully as we lie together in the pool. She's quiet, and so am I as the waterfall roars beside us and Hobgoblin nestles against her— it's peaceful, serene and fulfilling to simply lay down for a moment and soak. This is something I've never had the chance to enjoy, something I have never done (when have I ever been able to relax?), although  my body continues to twitch and fidget (a habit I've come to develop) despite the calm.

She draws away and takes her time in explaining that I cannot change people to fit my needs, and my ears fall and lip curls. "I know that I cannot change him, I'm not trying to, nor do I want to. The time and effort that would take is far beyond what I have." I snort at the idea of Zhu being polite and well-mannered (he's a little big shit is what he is), wondering if her attempts at teaching him to be kind went in one ear and out the other— he's certainly never been kind to me (there's obviously several reasons behind that). I look over her as she speaks, telling me she will be proud of him no matter how he turns out, my stomach twisting as I think of pride— how Mother has never expressed it towards me (she has and never will be proud of me, will she?) "I understand very well that parents cannot control what their children become, unfortunately sometimes they don't. And the child is the one who suffers for it, who pays for their ignorance." My spine crawls, scarred flesh itching at the mention of all of Mother's attempts of changing me "for the better." Maybe this is why Sabre is gone, perhaps she ran away because the pressures of Mother's expectations were too much— but she wouldn't run (she's too stubborn) and she certainly wouldn't leave me, would she?

"Talk."