my kingdom come

There's nothing more for Mother to say to me today, distant steel eyes sweeping away from my macabre features and into the distance— there's nothing more for me here. Her quiet mood is brought on by the disappearance of Sabre, her lack of presence in our homely forest bringing Mother to unspeakably low levels. Over just the past few days her temper has blown up in my face, and her solid hooves and blunt teeth strike relentlessly against my skin. All along my back are layers of open and healing wounds, creeping up my neck and scattering as they get closer to my face (at least Mother knows what's most important to me).

They sting with hollow love, with false ideals and precious familiarity— the comforting feeling of at least being noticed by my dam makes the wounds feel more like prizes or rewards rather than reminders that I'm jack shit not as wonderful as Mother wants me to be (I certainly think I'm pretty amazing). It feels gratifying to earn such wounds by the hands of my own mother, the woman I fear hate with all my being— yet love for all that she has done for me. She dutifully answers my questions, fed me and kept me in line (for the most part).

She turns away like there isn't blood staining her lips, like there isn't a fading hatred in her eyes and trembling limbs from over exertion. "Go on, I don't want to see you for a while." Mother doesn't even look back, moving with painful caution as my stomach lurches (am I feeling sympathetic?), I want to shout at her that she isn't the only one affected by the absence of Sabre— that she was my womb mate and I was hurt too by her unannounced leave, that I felt cold and empty with the loss. So I leave Mother to her sulking, letting her mourn the absence of her child in peace and isolation.

The first person who comes to mind who may be able to provide solace in this melancholic and quiet time is aunt Nym— surely I could find some form of comfort in my callous reflection, in the cold crimson eyes of my closest (relationship wise) relative. No one else in this god damn family (am I even allowed to call it that? I really don't know who else it consists of other than Volterra, Nymeria, Sabre, Zhu and I— Mother not included) who could provide me with any sort of support. Volterra would surely tell me to just "beat it out, just kick, bite, and fight out your feelings." But it wasn't anger that filled me up anymore, anger at Volterra for forgetting about his trivial affairs and leaving Sabre and I to a mother who cannot handle us (who hates us, loathes us for our imperfections). I'll seek out Nymeria eventually, hoping she'll let me bury my head into her clean breast and weep out my sorrows (the tears I've been holding in), that she'll listen to my words and provide guidance in this situation.

I take off towards a quiet location, running with my teeth grinding together and hooves thundering against the solid earth, back warm from the gentle Birdsong rays. I don't have a place in mind, guided only by the desperate need to get away from everything and everyone for a long while. I need this time, these few moments to reflect on all the shit that I've been getting lately— all the bad hands and shitty deals life has thrown my way. What have I done in my short span of existence to deserve this mess? Where in my life did I fuck up badly enough to have this sort of morbid reciprocation? Ivory framed nostrils flare and huff, thick legs working hard to keep me going at a steady pace. I stop to catch my breath, sides heaving as sweat begins to dribble down my coat and soak into my open cuts (that shit hurts).

"Talk."

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."

my kingdom come

The irritation isn't well hidden, my eyes drawn to the near pinned ears and burning fires behind mismatched eyes (it's disgusting to see him so mad from such a simple action). My face remains stoic as I look down at the significantly younger child brother, seeing what more this thief has gotten away with— bubblegum meets an ivory spine (Zhu's, that's Zhu's), a corner of my lip twitching in irritation at the sight of someone so undeserving wearing all the signs of powerful bloodlines. He is no prince, no child born of chaotic kings and queens, of ruthless conquerors— he is someone undeserving of such rich blood, such deep rooted history in a land he defiles with his presence. If he truly is a blood brother of mine, then I have no reason to be his friend, we are in an unspoken competition for father dearest's affections— for his metaphorical crown. And I— I will be the one to earn it.

"That marking isn't yours." He's making me sick to look at it, my mind having long ago associated such a unique marking as Zhu's and Zhu's alone (besides, those feelings for Zhu are for him alone— this child brings out requited anger and bitterness). I keep calm in this situation, body still (that's a first) before the newest edition. Did he so easily think he could slip between the cracks and pass into our family with ease, confidently striding in to take what wasn't his. Does he think that he gets it easy because he's nice— that that will take him far in life? His childish innocence is almost sickening to witness, how small and easily fooled that mind of his is (hidden behind our skull).

He seems to bite back (a seemingly shared trait among the children of Volterra, our tempers of fierce and wild things) at my response, so easily infuriated by my lack of politeness. Does he truly believe that everyone he runs across will tell him the time of day? "You surely must hit your head a lot if you think that everyone you meet will be so polite." I taint the last word with harshness, crushing the syllables between blunt teeth as I tell him how it is (he's been living so innocently for too long, someone needs to wake him up). This isn't some childhood fantasy where everything is sugary sweet and wonderful, where the wind hums delicate songs to you and there are fairies perched on precious fungi in the forests— this is the real world. There's nothing precious or fantastic here, nothing awe inspiring in the way mothers (Mother) beat their children into submission and obedience, in the way sisters wander into the woods and never come out— the way fathers get so lost in their conquests they forget that there are consequences to such pleasantries (forget to seek them out, to be a part of their lives).

"I know it's your real name because you didn't hesitate to offer it, you didn't pause to think of one to give me." My observations are keen, eyes trained to catch significant details in conversation, whether it be body language, the words themselves, the tone of voice, the speech pattern— it's all significant to note. It's become a survival mechanism when facing Mother, keeping watch for the telltale signs of her unrelenting rage. An ear will fall or her words will falter and I know to be prepared for the shit storm (it's seriously come to work in my favour). I was born an observer, to keep a close eye on the behaviour of those I interact with (a habit), to be tedious in watching each movement. "And you must know a lot about stupid things," you are one yourself. I bite my tongue at such an insult— this isn't the case of the Eagle girl, where we were both so young and soiled from the hands of our parents that we could handle such direct blows. This child was still so weak against the harshness of existence, still so new to the feeling of anger and fire in his veins— it would be unfair for someone so experience to crush him before he has a chance to blossom (not like I had one anyway).

His ears fall farther still, my eyes drawn to the movement as the bitterness in the back of my throat lingers, watching the child seethe at a distance. Let him get angry, let him know that shit wasn't always going to go his way. "You can do a lot with a name." I leave it at this, knowing well the dangers of giving out my name like it's some cure to a fatal illness, letting every individual I pass by know my name (know who I am)— it's a foolish thing to do.

Astarot sounds irritable with his squeaking voice and temper, like a child whose throwing a tantrum over a cookie. He seems to think he's clever or knows what's best, that his niceties will get him far in life (they certainly won't). He knows nothing when it comes to managing through life, nothing about hardships and bullshit— that life serves you a pile of shit some days (today) and tells you to deal with it. Every time Mother's hooves strike solid against my body, every day Sabre is gone— it's all enough to prove to me that life is shit, and I can't expect it to get any better. Kings just have to adjust to the situation, to give what's needed of them and try to adapt to any scenario as it happens. A king cannot let his people famish because he cannot produce for them enough to eat, a king cannot let them die at the hands of his enemies because he cannot strengthen his defenses— he must attempt to fix it as it happens. And if he does fall, he cannot lay in the earth's sturdy arms and weep for his failures, he must stand anew (stronger now).

"Because you just might be." Is the only response I have to offer, bubblegum meeting only the blue eye (I will not acknowledge our shared blood).

"Talk."