kid

With the ending of my pleasant dangerous climb to take up my prize, I spot a girl upon my descent— she is frantic and her mouth is gaping in a silent plea for my to come back. A brow rises at the stranger, pink eyes falling to the wings at her flanks as I pick my way towards her, cautious with my footwork (a king is always graceful)— careful to steady myself every time I feel my hooves begin to slip over the smooth surface of the stones.

As I crown myself king of the world she makes her way to me with a breathless sentence surpassing dark lips— a rant about how crazy I am, that my existence could have fallen short and my dreams never achieved (which will never happen, I'm not dying until I at least claim the title of king). And obviously this girl doesn't get that I'm not a coward, that I could have performed a musical number on those rocks with all the elegance and steadiness I have— I was born to rule dutifully, and as a future ruler I must at all costs be well balanced and precise (or is this for princesses? Ah well).

"I'm not crazy, I'm fearless." That's an utterly bullshit statement, seeing as how I have a lot of things to be afraid of (Mother, the heteros and their weird romances— seriously they do some weeeeird shit for each other), and yeah— my heart raced a little when I was climbing around on those rocks— but I was confident enough in myself that I wasn't going to fall. This proclamation of fearlessness is accompanied by a puffed out chest and squared shoulders, my flashy new accessory shining in the afternoon light (for dramatic effect).

She sounds like she just ran a race and is struggling to push the words out, having been scared by my displays of stupidity bravery. "Were you worried about me?" I ask cautiously, eyes growing just a size bigger because I've never encountered a stranger who dare care for me— not even Mother cares for my well being. The scattered scars along my body are grim reminders that in fact Mother is often the cause of my physical injury. The deepest, most recent scars that line my shoulder and flow with my ribs provide further evidence of such— the idea of her caring for my state of being makes me want to burst out into a fit of laughter (which would be inappropriate in front of this scared-to-death girl).

I observe the ebony pegasus, catching the mismatched eyes with what could only be record timing. "Your eyes are different colours." I note, my own bubblegum pink ones darting about the young features that the girl wears (she's actually not much older than me), my ears pricking forward to catch her reaction to me stating the obvious. "How does that happen?" My curiosity gets the better of me, and the question slips past my lips before I can catch it. Perhaps she doesn't even know, and it's pointless to even ask (well, I won't know until she answers). Or maybe she does, and I'm about to learn much more than I'd intended today.

"Talk."