Condemned to Predetermined

 

On one hand, he knows he's supposed to feel proud, that his mother is now a Queen and thus by an extension of that greatness she had seized for herself, it made him a Prince. He should of congratulated her with gusto, should have his ears strained forward to hear her every word. Instead, all he felt was a twisted maelstrom of emotions which confused and annoyed him, writhed through his veins in both hot and cold waves. It was why he hadn't raced to the scene of the challenges which had echoed across the throat, he had hunkered down in his cavern and forced his eyes shut — forced himself to block out what had raged around him, however long and short it had stretched on.

His family had fought that night, and his heart had shattered for it. He liked to pretend that his heart had hardened, and the mask he wore had sunk into his face and had become a part of him. In reality, he was still a bit too fragile than he'd have liked. He still got torn to pieces, he still found that his heart skipped a beat whenever something or someone threatened that which he was attached to.

Sikeax had taken him under her care, rather than let him be passed around the multitude of members of the Throat for rearing. She had taught him that aloe helped his burned nose, and she had taught him the certain plants he could use on his scraped knees and which ones he couldn't. She had been his ma, and now his mother and ma had fought, and Sikeax had lost.

Then his father had been challenged as well, Tyrath wasn't stupid, and neither was he naive. He displayed a wisdom and cunning far beyond the age of his body, he questioned everything and explored and turned everything he could get his hands on, where ever he went. It had been a set up, there had been no way unless a divine stroke of luck the mandible marked filly would of won against the mountain that was his father.

He glided in on light steps, hooves pushed off the ground for a beat, the stroke of his wings carried him for another, and then he landed. Rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat. It stopped when he finally reached the gathered horses and he found himself stood next to his father. "Apa." Would his father be able to tell how conflicted he was? The way his fanged maw pulled downward and the lines which scraped across his face? Part of him hoped so, and a part of him didn't — what if Volterra saw it as weakness in his son, that he was bothered so much by this. "You look a bit shit." It's a shit attempt at a joke, but it helped alleviate his own upset.

Did he feel conflicted too? He wondered, was this a price of having a wandering mind and a fleeting heart? Sikeax was also the mother of one of Volterra's children, just as Aithniel was. Had it bothered him that the mother's of his children had tangled, albeit briefly and he might've been forced to choose between which one if Tae hadn't come along and challenged him?

Still, his crowned head turned towards the demi-goddess — his mother — and offered her what smile he had to give, a genuine smile that wasn't peppered by his own sadness and hurt. He should be happy, right? He was in a way, she had won, she had set out on a goal and achieved it. "Congratulations, ma." Calling her ma felt foreign, but it seemed too sterile to hold her at arms length and call her mother in front of everyone, and especially on the dawn of her new life as a Sultana. No matter how much it'd tore him up. The tribrid colt felt at least he should try, spread his wings and hope she'd not vanish into the sunset. He'd already lost Sikeax, he didn't need to lose her too.