Work Text:
Brontë
He hadn't heard his name in a long time. He always remembered it was the name he had been given, of course, but at this point, it had begun to feel like someone else. Like looking at old clothes worn as a child and being unable to remember why those clothes had been chosen.
Why they had been loved.
Wyvernwind
This truly was what tied him back home, back to being the prince of the Silken Squalor. Though that was not his home anymore.
Home is a strange term. Hometown is where you are from. But he is not from anywhere. He is from everywhere. From wherever the Silken Squalor is, he too is from there. This idea did not comfort him.
Home is where the heart is. And his heart is here beside him. Three feet tall with one arm laid across his chest gently dreaming. He hoped that Orym was dreaming. He wondered if Orym is still from his home. He wondered if he too was Orym’s heart, Orym’s home. He could feel his heart breathing. Wondered if he would get any sleep tonight.
The name is a thorny tendril. It does not let go.
Secondson
What is it to be a son? It is to carry on a legacy. To look your father in the eye and say I will be you but better and he nods and you never see him cry.
It is to carry on a name. To marry and procreate and keep a bloodline gushing with plasma to spill. Though he supposed he wasn't very good at that.
First is the worst second is the best. He couldn't place when he had first heard the rhyme but it occurred to him now that it was a child's way to cope with failure. A child doesn't know what it is to be second best, what it is to fail in your parent’s eyes. He knew he had lied to himself just then.
Not good enough was engraved into his very existence. From the moment he was born his parents had destined him for failure. He is the second of the Wyvernwind sons and that will never change, not if he died, not Cyrus if died. Status quo never changes.
He felt his heart rustle on the bed sheets next to him. Orym was sleeping peacefully. Orym would sleep peacefully. Orym does sleep peacefully. His heart has a steady beat and it does not falter. It does not trip and fumble and give itself away to anyone. It is not burnt by two suns in his chest which eat away at his lungs which he does not need, at his stomach which he does.
He does not think he has ever seen Orym’s heart. He thinks Orym’s heart is still safe at home.
The briars mark themselves on his side. He knows the blood is soaking into the mattress below him yet he does not know what it looks like. Neither does he know why it still runs with his chest devoid of a heart.
He knows he may bleed out with his heart in his arms. Maybe this is all that is meant for a Secondson.