Hurt
"It is my birthright"
"Your birthright was to die"
The cruel sadistic masochistic game they have started playing ever since the fateful day he knew his real heritage has spun out of control.
The game of words, tugging and pulling on them, sharpening their tongues and letting the poisonous letters drip free, spoiling the memories and mingling with the warmth that may have existed once,
They run up the hill, see who can spin better the mill, make a rope out of words and statments and strangle the other.
An everlasting game of slowly daggering and bleeding each other's love dry.
A game of hurt, who can hurt the other more.
A game of pure spite.
He knows how to hit a word hard, he knows how to forge words and half truths into full fledged whips and tear at souls.
Not just him, both of them.
Too bad they are both so frigging fragile
It is all waters of saddness now , no shores of relief.
Yet, for the record who would have thought the allfather was such a brilliant weaver of words?
They were more alike than he would have ever thought.
He might have taken it after him.
After all like father, like son.