growing. a xiola srp the stars were out again tonight. they always were, of course. unmoved. uncaring. burning light-years away, just like the people in xee’s life. distant. detached. beautiful, maybe. but utterly useless. he sat on the cold stone ledge overlooking the dead forest beyond his camp, his prison, really. the wind tugged at the ends of his pink fur, teasing him like it knew something he didn’t. his claws curled around the granite’s edge, like he could squeeze the fury out through stone if he just held tight enough. xiola. the name echoed like a curse now. named after the god of life, his mother once said. like that meant something. like it meant anything. what life? what mangy life? torn bodies. screaming. blood drying on stone floors. eyes stuck open in terror. that was his lullaby. that was his cradle. not peace. not love. not life. he used to worry he’d see the world for what it really was, used to fear understanding it. well, he understood now. too well. every time another cat cried out in vain, something inside him broke. every lie his mother told. every false smile. every time she touched her cheek to his and said he’d “get used to it.” the rage got louder. and louder. until it was all he could hear. a dull roar behind his eyes. a storm locked in a body too small to hold it. he was tired of the silence that came after screams. tired of pretending. tired of names. tired of destinies wrapped in someone else’s dreams. “I’m not him,” he spat. the words tore out of him, raw and bleeding. “I’m not some mangy symbol of hope. I’m not light. I’m not peace. I’m not what you wanted.” his voice cracked, not with sorrow, but with fury. with frustration at being caged and told to smile. “I was born in death. raised by liars. and you want me to worship life?” he stood, sudden and sharp. claws scraping the edge. shoulders heaving. tail lashing like it could slice the night in half. his jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. “I want out,” he hissed, to the stars, the sky, the gods, the ghosts. “I want out of this camp. out of this name. out of this broken story I was forced to play a part in.” a bird startled from a branch nearby. the wind pulled harder. the night said nothing. but that was fine. he didn’t need answers. not anymore. he needed something else. a spark. a rupture. a new phenix to rise over the ashes. he stared up at the stars again, jaw tight, eyes burning. “xiola died in there with the rest of them,” he said, quieter now. “let him rot.” he exhaled. slow. shaking. something loosening in his chest for the first time in moons. “… i am xiola, not a deity but a son, and a brother.” hed think of beemist and add, “and someones friend.” the name sat different on his tongue this time. Lighter. not free, but freer. “I’ll use she,” he muttered. then, after a beat, shrugged. “or he. whatever works. whatever keeps their paws off me. whatever breaks the picture they’re trying to paint.” his lip curled. “I’ll be everything they hate. just to remind them I’m still here.” the stars didn’t answer. but he didn’t care. he turned from them anyway. he didn’t need their light. he’d find his own fire.
