violence
Motherhood is not a language Violence speaks fluently, if she speaks it at all. Her own mother had born children out of practicality, breeding with her monster consort to see what things she could produce. Violence, the first, had been a letdown – she lacked the monstrous shape of her father, unlike the sisters that came after. Never mind that she was powerful – she could raise the dead, make bones walk, take over others’ minds – she was simply not of interest to her mother. Violence never felt as if she was missing out – she had not longed for a mother’s kind touch, or loving words – but she had begrudged that her mother refused to enhance her when Violence had asked.
Violence had no interest in bearing her own children. She ignored her heats, when they came, because she had no interest in taking such a thing on, no desire to bear and feed a child. She was content with her bone-creation, her thing made of a dozen different species that she animates for no reason other than the fact that she can.
But she had slipped. He’d been all darkness and power, and had been pleasant enough to talk to, and so she had let him cover her. She’d hoped, after, that it wouldn’t take, but her barrel grew and soon she could not deny what was brewing inside her.
She’d assumed, when labor finally came and the dark, wretched thing slipped out of her, that it would be a girl. Her mother had borne only girls (at least as long as Violence had stuck around to see them), and Violence had assumed she would, too. There was no logic behind this assumption, but when she realized that she had, in fact, given birth to a son, she felt unmoored in a way she could not quite articulate.
She names him prime, because it seems as good a name as any.
She does not love him, but she lets him suckle, her only real acquiescence to motherhood. She should have been pleased – the days pass and the boy is handsome, black with gold about him. More importantly, he’s powerful – a necromancer, like her, with a taste of the demonic, like his father.
It’s his father she seeks now, the child at her heels. She isn’t sure that she’ll find him – she knows little about him, other than his name, and the fact he’s a magician – but Violence often gets what she wants, so she goes into the forest expecting to find him, dual shadows trailing behind her and her son.
these violent delights bring violent ends
@firion