Ears fall back, eyes reflection the emptiness of the inside (how stupid is he?)— it takes me a moment to remember that Volterra is no matured man, that he has lived on this soil barely longer than I have. He is no aged warlord, conqueror of many cities, a powerful beast with dangerous strategy. He is still a boy (although not physically). We are
Perhaps in that first bite, when my cries for attention (now silent, but still there) became too unbearable for Mother— when her motherly instincts were just beginning to blossom and the overwhelming emotions took her sense of rationality away. She drew blood and left a deep, rough scar against my cheek— my first taste of physical abuse. From there it only worsened, scattered scarring against brindled hide, worn in
And Volterra knew nothing of it. He knew nothing of the wounds I've born, of the blood that's dripped down my shoulders and stained the forest floor— he's clueless to it all. He doesn't know the emotional trauma, the insults that leached under my skin and brought me down (I've grown stronger now), the suffering of a young boy who cannot comprehend why his mother would do such terrible things to him. "Where were you?" I ask, hushed words caught up in the wind, attention solely on the man before me. Where had he been when I needed him? When I slept alone, hidden from Mother's sight, licking frantically at the wounds that wouldn't stop bleeding (I was so
That's where the bitter hatred seeds itself, planted in the stone heart of a broken
I do not ask, I tell. I tell Volterra what I know he may never hear of anywhere else, a well guarded phenomena that he may have carelessly ignored until it stitched itself back together (if it ever did). The tear in this family could not be ignored, could not be thrown aside to never be doted on again. "Sabre is gone." There is a glance to the side, an ear falling back and the sour taste of defeat clinging to my tongue. I hope he's happy to know that I'm going out of my way to share such precious news, struggling to overcome the knotted throat and narrowed brows that accompany the truth. I'd thrown away hours, calling helplessly into the dark of the forest,
"She's been missing for weeks, maybe months." I shrug like I don't care (I do), swallowing the sorrow that claws at my throat as I try to grasp at the reality of her absence. The stages of denial are over now, the after effects of the painstaking process prominent in the distant bubblegum gaze, caught up in the smudged horizon. Does Volterra even care? Would he have ever even known? No, he wouldn't have. He would have kept living, believing that his one daughter was healthy and beautiful despite never meeting her— did he even plan on meeting her ever? My stomach churns at the idea that perhaps she hadn't even crossed his mind, that he has pushed her into the dark recesses of that empty skull, valuing sex (and battle) more than his own children.
"Well then, teach me your language. And when I'm physically able, teach me of fighting, of battle strategy and all that you know of it." That is my
"Talk."
@Volterra