and let me kick you off a bungee

My first patrol is with two absolute strangers and the man Momma has deemed my father ("Volterra," she tells me, "seems like a nice man. He aided Sikeax in a time of need. I'm grateful for that. He's good to his children, so I've heard.") But what of me? Was I not a child worthy of his affections? ("Why hasn't he spent time with me then Momma?" A pause, the piecing together of valuable information. "Because I'm different?") I've never felt the air shift so suddenly, to have Momma's entire body stiffen, and a silence shroud the space between us. She never answered me, instead refusing to acknowledge my question and letting it slide away, desperate to let it die in the sands as we made our way towards the Oasis.

And even as I headed towards the location of my patrol (towards the location of my father), I mulled over the question. Her lack of an answer threw me off, made me think that perhaps it was true, that I was just a disgrace to him - a mutilated child to turn away from and ignore (to pretend I did not exist at all), to convince himself that his sperm could never take part in the creation of something so cruelly formed. A hideousness that spread out from the searing wounds that sprawled across my face, the many cuts and bruises that flowered over my body (I could feel them all, stinging and calling for my attention with every step, hissing at the crisp Frostfall air that numbed them). A gruesome existence that was woven tightly from the destruction of a newborn, with grotesque wings and a face so smelly and sickening not even the Sun Physician could change the bandages without gagging. And Momma could never face me - wouldn't dare fess up to her crimes, to plead guilty to the mutilation of her own child. But I have learned to love her still, perhaps not so thoroughly as many children may love their mothers, but enough.

I had almost forgotten that there was another involved in my creation, that Momma did not produce me alone ("I - it was never anything serious, you have to understand that I was - lost - struggling with some things. This does not mean I don't want you or regret having you, but it wasn't exactly my intentions either.") And as she spoke I nodded along, passing off her flurry of unsure words and letting her learn that I don't care (I do care, I do), I wish I'd been left there beside the river, had been abandoned and allowed to waste away (Why did you keep me even after you'd ruined me so thoroughly? What do you gain from loving a crippled child?). Every night the thoughts creep in, a horror to behold as my entire existence begs for annihilation, absolute destruction of mind and body, the release of an unwilling life - catastrophe in the form of bittersweet acceptance into Death's open arms, a child to be pushed aside and forgotten with the passing of time, to the point where even Momma's body begins to forget that it ever bore a child. The reversal of time, taking her back to where she was foolishly masquerading around, appealing to a man unable to say no to her tempting displays - to tell her to stop while she still can, to save herself a world of pain and rough, raw emotions that tear at the mind and break the soul.

Forget me, for there will never be a need for a broken child. Not to fight, not to prosper among the rankings of healer, of crafter, of diviner - a useless object set aside "I'll find something to do with it eventually," but the years will pass and still it will sit there, drowning beneath layers of junk and dust, reduced down to nothing after years of disuse.

Sameira leads the way, spine ablaze with fiery red flickers as she travels through a winding path of trees, her steps swift and steady - absolute silence (not a bark or a playful yip, no childish games today), for she senses the sinking pit forming in my gut, opening wide to eat away all of my emotions. It devours them like they're foreign delicacies, taking the time to savour them while I helplessly watch each and every feeling fall away - there's nothing left for me as I spy Volterra's hefty figure accompanied by another child (his? A sibling I don't know about?) weaving through the labyrinth, numbed and careless as I plow through bushes and branches to reach the sturdy figure sticking out against the blues and purples of the landscape (it's freezing here, I hate it).

I have to hastily trot to keep shoulder to shoulder to the behemoth beside me, Sameira turning to me and nodding her head before sprinting off to search for food or herbs, whatever it is Momma asked her to get. But I can see that she's still lingering just at the edge of my vision, slowing significantly to walk out of sight - her heat signature is far less clear, but still present (her body temperature is extreme, she's constantly blazing red no matter how cold it may be) within my vision. I don't know how to address my father (father sounds too formal, papa seems too casual considering I've never formally spoken to him - dad seems far too awkward), instead choosing not to say anything about his relations to me and skipping straight to herd business instead. "Is it just us three?" The other child I could easily forget all about, head angling to catch a glimpse of her petite wings, perfectly shaped - I wiggle mine and find that it's nearly impossible, feeling nothing scrape against the skin and tug at the feathers as I move through the labyrinth.