What I wouldn't give to let my responsibilities melt away, let them slip off of my broadening shoulders and give me a moment to breathe without disturbance. I crave the innocence I lost so suddenly, the childhood that I was never allowed to experience fully, desperate to become the careless child among imaginary companions. Sometimes I forget how much I want those hours spent daydreaming about my future kingdom filled with loyal subjects and my powerful army that understand each command I give to them— the false destruction of opposing kingdoms who dare challenge a mighty man such as myself, who fail to recognize the war familiar bones in my body and royal blood in my veins. These dreams of becoming something more than just a child to pass by, to ponder for a moment (oh, look how odd a boy) before continuing on with life— they've all been torn away from my fingers.

The harsh reality is that I may never achieve such a dream, may never make a name for myself here within the confines of this land (there's more beyond the boundaries of Helovia, for that I am certain. Mother has told me tales of her homeland, of the shades who consumed it and were merciless in the lives they stole), and certainly my name will not even be a whisper beyond these borders. I doubt it's even one now, just a thought collecting dust in the back of a few troubled minds— the Mountain has probably forgotten of me and my triumphant declarations of how sick she is was, the grullo girl and her sister have probably long since left behind the memories of our encounter(s), and that kind mare with the cerulean horn who swept me up in her arms in my time of need probably can't even recall that night where I sobbed helplessly into her arms. I will just live to be a nobody, born to die nameless and unknown, a silent existence among a thousand vibrant names.

Escaping, my old friend returns. The word (the meaning) cannot leave me be for more than a moment, always coming back to haunt me— to remind me of just how much I depend on these moments away (these hours of temporary escape). I offer her a gentle smile, falsely sweet as I look down at the doe-eyed (quite literally) fawn, observing the way the corners of her lips curl up nervously. "And what is it you're escaping from?" I'd certainly gotten this curious when it came to adults, prodding about in their heads by knitting together cautious questions that promised excellent answers— but I'd never dared to try it on children with such pure minds, given that I had very limited interactions with them.

"It must not be frightening enough if you're getting closer rather than farther." I watch her as she dauntlessly steps forward, tail twitching behind her as her head cocks to the side to observe my macabre mask. If only it was more terrifying, intimidating at least children, but no, even the children aren't afraid of my skeletal features. I'm formulating another question (those toes? The face?) when she drops one of her own, bubblegum eyes settling on precious amber as the last syllable falls from soft baby lips. Escaping from what? Yes, that's what I should think about. What it is I'm running from? Everything. But that's no suitable answer to give to a child (like me, she plays with her words and seeks out the results, an observer). "No, simply walking." Or running, whatever.

"Talk."

kid

run my reputation.