Through effort and time, understanding at last and looking over the facts that at the two times that they had previously met each other was constructed by fear and upset feelings, one from the worry of death and the other at the unexpectation of having a child that she had never even intended, she comes to see that Volterra might possibly count as a good man, despite the messes that he leaves in her wake. She manages to discover them with ease and work through them with simplicity, easy to point out and define, sons that she’s seeing now are not the products of his mistakes and more of his terrible selection of mothers. She even guesses that they rise out of the same situation she was in, not with the exact same circumstances, but the overwhelming sensation of panic and fear at the arrival of children that they haven’t expected.
The things that she used to use as a ways to define him as a terrible being are returning to tell her that she placed the blame in the wrong place, and for this, she’s beginning to feel bad.
Parting her thoughts to sip at his words, a nod is given in hand to him. Words to small talk and polite responses are not coming from her most bountiful orchards.
For the actions she’s dealt, reality finds a way to remind her that some things are best left to others. She is not brave, battle-hardened, only vicious because both of her sons are sired by a brutish man that she can only ever imagine on the battlefield like he was created and forged exactly for that purpose, creating only boys who are the same way who need guidance to keep them from things she doesn’t want to see them be. Warlords.
Had this been any other time, she might have admired the female. Against those that she is paired to, she is striking in comparison, godly, power set in life and vibrant in the places they lack.
But Sikeax’s head was centered to other topics, and she doesn’t take the time to even start to know Vadir when she takes the leap. Vadir is just another mistake on a growing list, one that as her mind catches up to her body, sprinting and gasping for breath, pleading with her to think, even just for a second, shuts her eyes with what has the possibility to be the last time. Does she welcome the end of her time at the mouth of her mistake, the heat working through her body and sending her into shock, thinking out final thoughts as her body follows instinct that recoils her into a submissive state, tucking her legs beneath her and ass into the ground?
There isn’t enough time for her to think those thoughts with the way things are going.
Surprise overtakes her when it never comes. Hobgoblin is wailing, not audibly for Volterra and his winged reptiles to learn of his attachment to her, but deep within both of them. Most of all, he doesn’t want her to die, but there is the stress of the sudden acceptance that if it was possible from him to live onwards without her, that he wouldn’t be able to feel life to its fullness. He almost wants to scream and leap upon Vérzés for the barking laughter rolling out of him like the waves from the sea when the Dragon’s Throat has a tropical storm because how dare Vérzés react in such a way to these things? Sikeax could have died, and in the process, unknowingly taken him with, and here his one friend laughs.
And because Hobgoblin is a beast who thinks only of his thoughts and not of how others take things, he scrunches up disgust on his features. Any food in his belly has gone sour. What there was for him to feast upon around him is nothing more than corpses that he can’t find any pleasure in, tightness swelling in his throat as he feels the arrival of what? Sadness? Depression? Disgust? Failed expectations?
He isn’t sure when the tentacles are lines of nails that he leaps and dances over, greeting the ocean like he has felt Sikeax do many times before, preparing to shield himself against any jellyfish lingering in the void-like body, and then promptly changes his appearance. The suction of air that had been swept in is not nearly the correct amount for this body when he throws himself into sea grasses. It holds longer than intended, and when he surfaces, not taking the time to look back at them, his gasps for air are vicious and greedy.
Sikeax stands with all of her physical expression sunk at his absence. Volterra has done such a wonderful thing for her, but Hobgoblin stands to believe that there is nothing good out of it. She, on the other hand, can find their discovery of humor in the moment, watching with terror tucked into her chest because there is Death herself waiting for her, clawing at stone with ferocity with just how much she wants her. Is this not what she had asked for in the first place? Her over Hobgoblin?
If she had really died from Vadir’s flames, something that was a real world thing and could have easily happened if Volterra hadn’t been there to save her, Hobgoblin would have died with her. It wasn’t known between the two of them, but had it been, then she would had withheld to escape selfish mistakes.
The man that she now owes some sort of debt to is, in what she can imagine, complimenting her. It makes her even more uneasy, sinking downwards because Hobgoblin is distancing himself and leaving her more and more alone, in a dark place that leaves her feeling bare and exposed.
I need you. She whispers to him on hushed thoughts, sadness holding onto fear tightly as the two emotions make feeble attempts at comforting one another like lost souls who have found someone they needed who isn’t the right remedy to their ailments. It’s okay. He didn’t mean it like that.
When he doesn’t respond, she feels herself give way at last. What had once been such a wonderful day is now blued by mistakes and bravery that she shouldn’t have used.
“I shouldn’t have done that.” It flees her lips in a soft tone, hushed by ocean waves sighing in disappointment and hopefully far from Volterra’s capturing ears.
“Thank you, for that. You didn’t have to do that, but it was really nice of you. If you ever need something in the future, healing, a place to stay for a bit, whatever, consider it a thank you for it.” Because it wasn’t just like you saved my life.
Hobgoblin scuffs, diving deeper and tempting a shark that is obviously becoming stressed and aggressive in his presence, curling his long body around and flashing his teeth in its direction as the beast makes an attempt to flee. The hunter in him has him follow suit.
Please come back.
“You come to sea. We leave. North.”
The idea doesn’t make her feel bad. All of their shared words are catching up to her in the end. The conversations are increasingly pushing lines that make her tail swing uncomfortably, thrashing against invisible flies that she can’t imagine enjoying the salty air much. It settles into her sunburns littered atop her spine and reminds her of how much standing still is a curse, and there is little shade to spare her.
Yes, the sea sounds lovely, but she will not be rude in parting. Not yet.
She gives him her all, a last ditch effort at pushing through the swamp in her personally dug grave that is becoming a vast system of caverns.
His age is a number, one that encourages her to count backwards and bring forth more things, but the memories are blurred, haunted by a trail of death and oh yes, that familiar feeling of panic at the mental sight of a dead body left to rot in the Sun. No, she won’t bring that up to him. Not today, not tomorrow, maybe not even ever.
Those days stained her and the Dragon’s Throat, reminded of her fluttering heart and the giggling she couldn’t control herself from releasing at the presence of Cera when he won her heart like a top shelf prize at a carnival game.
Some things are best left forgotten.
“Four and a half.” It thrusts forward like a blunt stone thrown into a still lake, looking for a way to open without giving it all.
He is her’s the entire time she speaks, comforting her and quite possibly offering her a bit of confidence in herself as he shows obvious interest to her and what she takes as emotion when his ears move slightly, but they are prompted by his attentiveness to his dragon in her prison. She doesn’t let herself follow. She will not look death in the face again. Not for a long time.
In the water, a life is taken, teeth sinking into a thrashing body as two entities fight from control, blood staining blue as stress slips off of Hobgoblin’s mind like a chainmail glove.
Another nod, another wordless response to statements she isn’t sure she has enough words to push out. This topic is unsettling, another remind of things that had gone to pass and things she will have to overcome in the future.
Just not today. Possibly, a different Sikeax will have to exist for her to face those wholeheartedly.
Embarrassment peppers her features when he asks her for an idea of time, shifting her facial expression to fit her feelings. Time has always been a fleeting thing for her. She had never really paid much attention to it in those days, heart and mind both equally set on spending as much time as they could manage with Amara, tucking herself into Tonka’s side(her body burns with agony and jailed tears at the sweet memories that the bay stallion had taken part in creating) and listening to any stories she could manage out of both her mother and him(the man who should have been her father). She should know better than to crush herself over the things that commonly plague children, but now that it affects her, the discomfort of it makes her regret.
Mostly how she should have counted and enjoyed every second with all of them, her mother, her father, Tonka, Kilchii…
Stop.
Hobgoblin hums in the back of her head, like he tries to comfort himself past her thoughts. They aren’t his, things he’ll never experience have the head to remember. Just pieces of things that aren’t a part of him and are in turn, nothing.
“I don’t know. It didn’t feel like long, but at the same time it felt like forever. You know, time is one of those things you never think of as a child.”
Illness slips into her bones at last. She cannot take this subject much longer, and Hobgoblin’s distancing act is doing nothing to assist her. She needs comfort and different words, a change of thoughts.
At last, she gives in.
“Maybe we should change the subject. It’s not the easiest thing to talk about these days.” Guilt gives her a firm, rough kiss to the lips, spilling a whisper telling her that is it is selfish of her to pull them away from such an unique subject, one that the stallion could possibly profit from in his own little way. It’ll haunt her in the days to come.
His tellings of wishing to become a king are worthy enough to make her smile, even chuckle to herself lightly. It draws her out of her head for brief, lingering seconds, thinking over youthful leaders forced to stand at Gaucho’s dominating side, small, weak in comparison, not yet proven and probably not completely ready for what was going to come to them. “That’s not something to worry about. There is no such thing as ‘boy-kings.’ Just leaders who need to prove their worth regardless of age.”
She sweeps her head seabound, searching for a glimpse of Hobgoblin. Another silent plea for his return that is flatlined and ignored.
“I don’t think you have a single thing to worry about. Do what you must when you feel like you’re ready.”
Silver slips out of the sea, gasping breaths as his ignorance to his survival needs is punished. He fades out within seconds, gone,, like many other things.

OOC: Honestly this post is so gross?? like bro i'm so sorry
also this is totally the longest fucking post i've ever written why must you and vol give me such wonderful muse and sia some damn feelings
Hobgoblin changes into his leopard seal form when mentioned and is a total salty buns ignore him