everybody wants to rule the world

But it does make me mad (not mad, crazy, insane, etc), it makes me furious that I cannot separate myself from the abusive woman who called herself my mother, who told me she was the one who brought me into this hellscape of a world, and the one who could take me out of it. I wanted to grind my teeth together and smash my head against a tree until I forget all about the heavy, constant beatings I faced, how I should've just run the way Sabre did, should have left Colt behind and never allowed such a twisted attachment to grow. The dependency is merciless, tearing me apart slowly, steadily, cleanly taking me apart piece by piece as I sink further without the mother I couldn't even consider a parent. She did not love me (at least, that's how it felt), she did not care for my well being, her idea of the "Perfect Son" left her constantly seeking to shape me how she pleased— she did not want to raise me as a son, as her child, but as a king, a warrior, a soldier fit to take on the world, a general to a legion, she wanted to create something akin to a god. What she wanted to achieve would never be possible, but she never realized it, not while she loomed over me and chided me for every wrong breath.

Her pent up frustrations on my inability to be exactly how she wanted caused a great deal of problems, and eventually she burst. It was something so damaging, scarring me on physical and mental levels, in ways I could never shake off. My body is a field of blooming scar tissue, flowering scabs and hairless patches, from hidden bruises and rough treatment, my body has been treated all too terribly. How have I made it so far? And the finale to her grand scheme, the sudden, premature ending to her experiment— she recklessly ruined me, she left me sobbing and broken, fractured and bloody, choking on spit and crimson copper, running thick over my face and staining my sides as she turned away from me and never looked back. She cut me off there, that was her signifying the end of it, telling me that I was no longer in need of her support, that she was giving up. I wanted to believe that it wasn't her giving up on me because I could not improve the way she wanted me to, but her showing me the way to becoming better than she ever could have dreamed— I just had to take those bounding strides to becoming something greater. How? I'm not really sure yet, but I know that whatever may happen, I will make it (I'll be okay, right?).

I shake my head, looking down at my hooves and taking in a deep breath. I know, I know, it doesn't make me mad at all. But, I cannot help but feel that I'm less, that I'm unstable, uncertain, without her to guide me with her teeth and hooves. "No, it doesn't... but it's still messed up." It feels like it is fucked up (almost as messed up as the fact that I fucked her son... my brother... fasz), and pretty high up there too, because who wants to face deep emotional and physical pain? Me, apparently.

"Who I want to be?" It's not like I've never thought of it (a king! The King!), but I could never make it happen, one man cannot do so much, not alone. Except I'm too much of a stuck up bitch to accept help from anyone, if I need want someone's help, I'll ask them, not vice versa (okay shut up Kid, stop being a narcissist and deal with the current problem at hand).
"I'd have to... think about that. I've always wanted to just be... someone who would impress my mom? Or... others..." ...someone who could be admired, idolized, appreciated. A powerful someone, with the ability to control an entire nation with a wave of the hand, so seamlessly ruling the world without mercy, feared and adored all the same (man, I just need some love and validation).

I wince at the way her face sours upon mention of the Throat, letting my ears fall back as I watch her cerulean eyes find solace in meeting the distance, knowing I've plucked at the wrong heart strings— the pain is fresh, new, a constant throb that buckles the knees and dips the head, I want to take back what I said, but my ignorance remains as present as ever (I'm sorry). I keep pushing, drive the knife further into the wound, twisting and grinding against the open flesh as I press on.
"Why? Why would you leave? What happened?" I can't tell if there is genuine concern in my words, (embrace your worry, stop being a bitch! You care, asshole!) or some sort of need to know why she was pressured into fleeing her home, why she crumbled beneath the judgement and left them— what did they do to hurt her this way?

I step forward, voice quieter now as I reach out to the amber champagne,
solemnly reaching out for some sort of comforting contact (for me or her?), whispering a mangled apology. "No matter, I'm sorry." I do not know why I apologize to her, why the words slip from bicolour lips, but they do, and I let them. Whatever the case, I hope she is not upset for my questions.

And Volterra? Well, he isn't my first priority, but knowing that he is there, in the Throat, means that there must be a hoard of his children there too. I offer something of a smile, melancholic and somber as I nod my head upon receiving the information, thankful for it even if I may not use it. "Köszönöm, I may consider seeking him out." It's unlikely, but maybe. A check in perhaps, something to see how he's doing, how the countless children of Volterra are faring (probably motherless, only looking to that "fuck first, think later" stallion for guidance, ouch).

"And what of you, Sikeax? How are you?" It's only something to keep the conversation, a desperate attempt to divert from the dead end (or absolute despair) our talk was headed towards, but considering her reaction to the Throat, I begin to think that this may be a bad choice.  

"Talk."