He's sitting in a small room, by himself, with only an unused bunk-bed, and a table. On the table, lays a gun. He does not look at it. He does not think of it. He isn't ready, no matter what the whispers tickling the back of his skull have to say.
He was five years old when his mother died.
The public's reaction was swift and immediate. The killer betrayed by his closest companion, turned over to the law enforcement the first chance they had. His punishing execution swift, effective, not even a trial to argue against his fate. To act against the Throne is to act against the Gods. There must be no mercy.
His Father told him to watch, and he did.
The execution was ingrained into his mind. Glorified by the re-tellings, the newspapers, his dreams.
He never let himself spare a moment to think how things would be had Zenoheld been shot between the eyes instead of his Mother. Things were the way they were. There was no point to fantasize of how things could be, could have been. There was nothing to be done about it. Dreaming only leads to one destroying themself.
But still, he-
"Gods, Hydron, you're such a fucking coward." Lync laughed out, grin like razor wire, trying to cut into him and rip him open. Claws around his neck, face close, eyes half lidded, mouth-
Ah, how the mind could wrap a person. Make them into something they weren't, never were. Strangle who they really were until nothing was left, and mold it into what they wanted.
He didn't fear him. This. He feared nothing. He couldn't risk weakness.
But if he taught himself to forget how to breathe, maybe he would blackout, and finally be left in peace.
Hydron has no memories of his Mother. Only an oak framed photo she'd given to him the day before her death. In her arms, she was holding him, an infant. Her smile was warm, and soft, and he has her hair. Whenever he looks at it, he feels as though he has been set afire.
He hides it underneath his pillows, so when he falls asleep in the swallowing, expansive darkness of his bedroom, he doesn't feel as alone. He only dares to take it out when he's at his most fearful, after Father has had his worst days, and he can't run the risk of crying himself to sleep, for the sounds would only draw further wrath upon him.
A week before his tenth birthday, his Father tears his room asunder after he misbehaves quite horridly, having asked his Father if, as his birthday present, he could stop hitting him, right in front of a visiting noble.
His Father finds the photo, and smashes him over the head with it. For his tenth birthday, his present is a concussion. The palace maids say nothing, but one of them uses her paycheck to buy him a soft, velvet doll. He thanks her, happier than he's ever been, and throws it out the first chance he gets.
The Bakugan falling was like a gift. With them around, his Father had something else to focus on, something to take up his time.
Something to give his son a moment of rest.
The chaos of the new creatures, the realization of what they could do, how this could be used to further control the Vestal people, how this could be the new obstacle they needed to keep the poverty ridden underground cities from achieving the rebellion everyone knew was coming…
His Father had been fairly stressed, in the months before that.
When New Vestroia was discovered and speedily colonized, portions of the populace moved there in order to quell unrest over the growing lack of space, and further splinter apart the people who would challenge the Thrones grasp upon them, he was elated. Someone would need to rule over whatever populace was moved there. With time, the dangerous land would be cut down, and the planet would become fully Vestal. It was clear to everyone that their growing Prince would be placed in the position of authority here, for eventually, he would be King.
Really, it was just a way for Zenoheld to get rid of him, likely hoping the burden would eventually overwhelm him to the point of it being clear he could never rule, or for him to meet an untimely demise at the hands of terrain, beasts, rebellion.
Suicide.
He didn't care. He never wanted to be royalty anyways.
The Vexos were an… annoyance.
Sure, he understood their purpose. He was only fifteen. Unfit for actual Rule, and fragile, delicate, and always would be, no matter what his Father might try to make him into. They were meant to be a guidance, help him with what he was to do, provide a type of friendship to his poor, lonely self, so far from home. To keep the state of Brawling in line, and to protect him.
Of course, the Gods hated him, and that was not at all what happened. And he hated them all for the false hope he was never allowed to have.
Well, all except for one.
Lync Volan was a marvel. Barely a year younger than him, and yet an incredible, magnificent Ventus Brawler, who swept the media by a literal and figurative storm. The people adored his soft face. His prodigious ability only amplified by his young age. A fourteen year old child, defeating every other Ventus he encounters.
(And, when the time comes, losing to the rebellion. Consistently. Purposefully.)
He would hate him, if not for the fact that Lync Volans marvel extends even further. The child is the only person that he can talk to. He never tells him to shut up, forces him to stop talking, hits him for what he says, or otherwise projects a great aura of distaste whenever he is in his presence. It's incredible.
So he talks to him as much as he can. Everytime, Lync nods along, grins, talks with him.
He can't believe it. So he tests this. Prattles on to him for a good three hours about the most inane subjects he can think of. And still Lync goes along with him, walks throughout the palace with him, listens to him. He gets frustrated. He doesn't understand how someone could seem to care. Hates the feelings welling up inside him. The growing understanding of what he's been raised through.
He accidentally says that he wishes Zenoheld were dead.
Lync stared at him, for a moment, expression perfectly blank, and Hydron was more terrified than he has ever been. And then Lync grinned, sharply, showing all his razor teeth, and pretends to cover up his ears with his hands.
And Hydron drowned into the pit of first crushes and infatuation.
(And only begun to understand why Lync reacted to a word he said much too late.)
Hydron tilts his head slightly, and motions to land a kiss that passes through the apparitions non-existent skin. Lync's laughter cuts through his skull like his Mother's bullet, sharp and piercing, figure distorting into a hellish creation, claws lengthening until they rip through his throat.
(but, unlike his Father's, these claws leave no marks, for these ones aren't actually there, and, Gods, he really is a coward.)
The not-Lync creature alters and warps and twists and tears, until all that remains is the screeching, echoing laughter not dissimilar to a flock of starving crows spotting a kill, and sharp, deadly teeth.
When Volt left, he was dealt with. As he must have been. The Death Bomb swallowed him, and that was all there was too it. A betrayal of the Throne is a betrayal of the Gods. It must be punished.
When Lync left, it became another matter entirely.
How dare he. Leave him, here, alone? At this time? To his Father's hand? (Shadow and Mylene were still there, but they hardly mattered. And the guards were always more robot than anything.)
Over all else, how dare he leave him for her. Some pathetic Earth girl Lync had barely known for a week. How could Lync have done this to him? It was like being set on fire. It was like a bullet, shooting through his skull, directly between his eyes. It hardly mattered that Lync had stolen Alternative information. The Resistance would have found out eventually. Hell, he might have told them himself. It didn't even matter that he hadn't spoken to Lync since their exile, months prior. He was enraged. Betrayed, by the one person in his life who made him feel any semblance of happiness, of worth, for some mongrel who meant nothing?
There was no worse possible feeling than this. There was no possible punishment for this. Fuck his Father's discontentment. Hell, fuck the Throne.
Lync's betrayal was personal.
His Father felt differently.
Well. The ghosts screaming in his skull felt differently about that.
Hydron pulls himself out of his bed, carefully, body weak, a deep unbearable pain threatening to destroy him. He stumbles, and falls. And pulls himself back up. And tells the laughing Shadow-shaped demon to fuck off. A Prince is not to be mocked by someone who couldn't even bother to stay alive to do it.
He reaches the table, and picks the gun up in his hand. His battle gauntlet, he supposes, is what it is. He's never sure of anything, anymore.
He snaps it onto his arm, and does not remember how to breathe. After this, he won't need to.
And he looks up, to the apparitions, to the hell spawn that chose to haunt his mind, until they disappear from his eyes, and his choked sobs cease. He does not hear Lync's sharp giggles or incentives in the back of his skull. This is his own decision.
Hydron straightens his back, and marches out of the room to meet the man he once pretended was his father.