"I'll let them know what bad means."

And the boy is there, still. I half expected him to drift away from me, to swing from my eyes and waltz into the vast coloured blur of the world beyond us— but he remains. He does not drift away from me out of disinterest or disgust, standing dutifully before me.

I hadn't met any likable boys in my age range, and that golden boy in the north was not likable. He was an annoying idiot who did not understand the fate to which he was destined by being born— to live beneath me as a less than sufficient peasant I would never know the name of. Perhaps he would become even less than that because of how foolishly he spoke out of turn, and how easily he spoke up in that innocent sing song voice that most children do. It was the charm of purity that I despised, the newly birthed shroud of innocence each child was given.

But not I, for I tore that shroud long before it could grace my shoulders. I burned it with the flames of rebellion, dancing along the imaginary fabric and consuming the tainted weaving, banishing it to a place that it could not haunt me for my abandonment of it.

I would think that as good— the boy standing there so calmly, so patiently considering that all my subjects should await commands from the heir— but seeing this boy as anything less than I seemed wrong. He didn't fit within the box of subject, and he was certainly no peasant even though he should be below me, just as everyone else is. The idea of him being less than me compelled me to wrinkle my nose, to toss my head and rethink the way in which I perceive the onyx kid He seems beyond the rankings of any sort of subject, draped in an elegance I cannot place my finger on (Nymeria), accented in something greater— stronger (Volterra). But there is something more, a gentleness and distance that I have not seen before (his mother).

He is a warlord, a future king that I could accept at my side. In time I will come to learn what these feelings are (why can't I stop looking at his face?), for now I'll claim that I've simply met someone who is equal to me, who I cannot look down upon. This unexplainable frustration worms its way beneath my skin as I look him over for what feels like the hundredth time (it probably is).

There's a familiarity to his features that I cannot discern, something that reminds me of me (Volterra and Nymeria, again). It's a family resemblance that sails over my head, passing me by as I trace over the definition of his body, over his thicker legs and blacked coat. I want to keep looking at him because I feel that if I don't he might slip away, that he'll vanish completely from this plane of existence and never be seen by my eyes again. It's an irrational fear, especially for a child raised strictly on the idea that fear means you are weak. But even so, it keeps me from looking away from him towards the world beyond, keeping my focused solely on him.

I watch him meticulously, noting each movement as he carefully breaks the surface of a nearby puddle with a split hoof. He's feeling out the earth beneath him, edging closer with his eyes clamped shut. His eyes, what was wrong with them? Was he afraid of seeing me (I'm not ugly, am I?), are his eyes a weird colour? I'm sure if he saw the colour of mine he would feel better, considering the fact that my eyes are the colour of blooming spring flowers (not very intimidating—yet). "Why do you have your eyes closed?"

"And that's salty water." I inform him, looking at him with a raised brow as he seems to realize that indeed that water was not drinkable by any means, nor would it cleanse his face of his tears. Speaking of, I was still very curious as to why he'd been crying, but I thought that asking such would be a rude thing to ask of someone I'd only just met (I didn't even know his name).

He speaks, broken fragments of what could have been the sullen syllables of a child— my mind works to carefully decipher his words. It plays them on repeat, whirring and clicking as the pieces slide into place. "Your eyes?" I question, not know whether that was an answer to one of my previous questions or whether he simply decided to state that he had them. Maybe they were bothering him? It's as he speaks that I spy subtly jagged teeth, hidden behind full black lips and caging a pink tongue. More questions rise to my throat, but I keep them down out of respect for the possibly overwhelming boy.

Dragon, he says. "What about them?" I ask, eyes guided to the vague location of the sun, muzzle gesturing for me to look in that direction. As I do, I try to pick apart what it all means, but I unfortunately continue to draw blanks as I stare into the smudged distance, barely able to make out the horizon and where it begins.  

"Talk."