my kingdom come

I could have stood there a good long while thinking about absolutely nothing at all, completely losing myself to nothingness as some other kid (ha) approaches. In fact, I could have just never noticed his presence and simply wandered away without even a word (I wish life was that kind), but instead he's brought to my attention by the words he speaks. They're uneven words, small and childish in his tone of voice (thankfully I've passed that stage in life)— face contorting as I hear him speak directly to me. Somewhere, I'm hoping that perhaps he was talking to someone else nearby, that I was an unnoticeable shadow against an unfitting scene of brighter hues that wouldn't be acknowledged. Much to my dismay, as bubblegum eyes traverse the surrounding area, it is only us— confirming unfortunately that he was in fact speaking to me. Rationally speaking, I could simply turn and dismiss him, tell him to ever so kindly fuck off and be on my way— or I could be irrational and weird and book it without a word or any form of acknowledgement towards him.

Turning hesitantly with a gruesomely and haphazardly pieced together smile on my bi-coloured lips, I turn to face him with a need to tell him off (in a very unkind way, but that's no way to treat family). I freeze the second my eyes draw over the familiar thickly built body of a child, the same one I'd so hastily admired for a good portion of my youth (Zhu)— with a density and power behind undeveloped muscles, a promise of knighthood on the horizon, grasped firmly by confident hands. I've seen it before, and it won't be the last time.

He is another, another consequence to another mistake, a lesson ignored and discarded. Who would tell this boy that his father's intentions were only to get off, that he had unknowingly fallen into the worst (yet most common) category of child— the bastard. And the irresponsible existence guilty of creating too so many children was one I had only just begun to be familiar with. Volterra. An unreasonable flare of anger wells within me, knotting my throat and distorting my shitty vision as I stare down at the pale child with his skeletal markings (Nymeria), wanting to blame him for our shared parent's recklessness.

But I keep a calm expression as I look down at him— I will always look down, never will I look up to this new son, this extra. Three sons (and one missing daughter) is enough, but Volterra still cannot realize that there is such a thing as pulling out. As great as it is to have an army of your own, produced from your overused dick, there comes a point when enough is enough and you've got to put your balls to rest before they shrivel up and waste away.

How am I (the eldest, the first, the original) to become a valiant king, ruler of all, when I have 3 4 to share my crown with— my fame, my glory, my valued kingdom, all to be divided (to be ruined) unwillingly. I would never share, never let anyone— sibling or otherwise— take my rightful crown from me. I was a cataclysmic king, a greedy ruler of a powerful kingdom who took time to strategically terrorize anyone who dare opposed me— mighty and bold, I am to be a legend who will fail to be forgotten, a constant memory in the minds of every resident of my expansive kingdom.

My eyes dare not give anything away, as blank and hollow as the rest of my ivory soaked features (the smile had faded the moment I turned to the boy). "Why should I tell you?" And he has the audacity to step towards me, to reach out with his little lips and dare to touch me as though he was offering me his condolences— like he knew I'd lost Sabre (lost myself), and he was at the funeral months too early. My tongue is bitter and heavy in my mouth as I avoid his touch, looking at him with little interest in his feelings (I hope it hurts). Dark legs step off to the side, watching him reach out into open air like a fool, pink eyes locked onto the fraction of ivory skull that crowned his dun head. Damn him.

Astarot is his name, one that he so eagerly (so easily) gives to me, an open book laid before my mismatched hooves. The kind smile is a vile sight, that childish innocence I never had so easily displayed on this boy's face, mocking me for my failure to hold onto my youth as it was torn from my bloody fingers by an angered dam. "You open yourself up to someone you don't even know so easily," how could he put trust in me, someone he'd only just met? Unless— Volterra. Unless he met our father (our), who had in turn told him all about Zhu and I, assuming we would welcome out new younger brother with open arms. Knowing Zhu, he was to be just as furious about the existence of another— perhaps they'd finally have something to talk about that wouldn't end in them seething with silent hatred (and sometimes unresolved sexual tension, but that might just be me). "What makes you believe I'll be just the same?"

"Talk."