"I'll let them know what bad means."

It was the scream I heard first, startling me from my splashing in the ripples. I straighten myself, ears pricking forward as I make out distant blurred shapes against the background that escape my vision. A petite black blob shuffles around— the source of the noise. Bubblegum eyes struggle to focus on the shape headed towards me, gradually edging into my field of view with each painfully hesitant step. There, against the blues and greens and greys, against the yellows and pinks and all those other blurry fucking colours— is him. 

A boy darker than night, with a bi-coloured tail and cloven hooves, an intoxicating presence and ivory kisses upon his brow— he intrigues me. He is thick and pretty, weaving my gut into a thundering disaster, a pit of carnivorous confusion. Had I met Volterra I would have known he wore the same shade of black as he, and that we shared blood. Fortunately, my cotton candy eyes have never laid upon the second half that had a hand in my creation— and my obliviousness to my connection with this child lives on. This family resemblance does not cross my mind, not the monochrome palette, the telltale black hide, not even the skeletal etchings that ran down his spine. He was simply there, squinting at me with crusted trails racing down his cheeks— he had been crying. 

I furrow my brows, listening to his stutter and falter on his words. He was roughly my age, standing only a few inches taller than me. As the details started to become clear I took notice that our similarities in build were astounding. Even in our adolescence we shared similar body types, although already my hind was swelling with muscle— a signature courtesy of Mother's blood, and his legs grew thicker than mine. I perk up, noticing the way the boy's eyes squinted and twitched— like they were irritated by something. "Hey." I called back, traversing over the puddles I'd just brought destruction and ruin to only moments ago to get closer to him. 

I glance around at the flat lands, at the water that so gingerly kisses the swelling clouds and sun bleached sky. I turn back to the boy, then down at my hooves. I am blind to the knowledge of our future— how important we shall become to one another— instead concerning myself with the salty sea water clinging to my coat and the sweat beading along my neck. "I was uh— playing in puddles." Suddenly I felt less god-like— less of a king and more of a bumbling idiot. I'd been playing in puddles. Kings don't play in puddles, kings are serious and threatening, and although I'm sure the pools were quaking before me, they were not the subjects I desired. 

"What are you doing? And why were you crying?" I looked at the kid (haha, fuck you Mother) and lifted a brow. I never cried— perhaps because Mother had beaten into me that crying was a dangerous tactic, that if I chose to cry I sealed my fate and was guaranteed a fierce lashing. I notice the misty appearance of his silver eyes (so enchanting), frowning. I wanted to know why he cried, why such a strong emotional response had taken hold of him at this time when he was free. I noted no adults (or should I say no vaguely horse shaped blurs) around us, meaning he'd come alone. I held a grin in, the exciting thrill of being unsupervised with another child bringing a jittery feeling to my skin, prickling with anticipation at the disasters we could bring with us. 

"Talk."