Яikyn

I didn’t have to call him sir? What did I call him then?

Just… father? Dad? Mom hadn’t ever told me what to do when it came to him, just the other men of the herd – and they were always sir, she said, until I was old, strong, and sure enough that I could best them in combat. If that meant I had to look to them as “sirs” and “madams” the rest of my life should I never be strong enough to rise above them, it made a warm comfort settle in me that, at least, dad wouldn’t be among them.

He goes on to tell me that I don’t have to take everything I am told as fact and law; I already know this, of course, but I’m too young to really know if I’m making a wise choice or being foolish, and so its only second nature to lean on the adults of my life to give it order. As he expands on my question as to why Torleik didn’t like momma, I feel my ears fall back at the reason. Weak and unable to control Deimos? My frown is obvious on my lips as I sullenly state my own opinion, even as father concludes with a statement that he is not entirely sure that is why. "No one controls anyone here, ‘cept the Gods," I say, "and keeping the Reaper in check? She’d have better luck getting the Sun’s nuts as a trinket alongside her pendants." A laugh breaks from my lips, my mind recalling the times I watched his dark, solid silhouette in the distance, imposing even in stillness, then falls suddenly as I realized I’d just cursed in front of my sire.

Shit. He did say we could do whatever, right?

As long as he doesn’t tell momma.

I don’t want her to stop supplying me with the long, extravagant list of curses and insults she’d been feeding me since my birth, her smutty tongue so ingrained in her personality that she never even so much as flinched when saying it. But I knew they were bad things – mostly because if she ever heard me repeating them, she’d quiver and shake with anger and smack me across the rump with her horn.

I hated her horn. I wish someone would break it off like they did Aunt Psyche’s.

As our conversation turns to d’Artagnan, its as if dad pulls the woman’s name from my mind, placing her not only firmly in reality but also not very far from the tales momma has shared of her. But the explanation being provided to me is latched onto with silence, absorbing all that is said and nodding when I found correlations to my own daily life. Momma was changing things; the painted Queen from the Edge, for one, and he knew in his heart that Aithniel was another blight that drew the scalding, judgmental eyes of their peers to both he and his dam. But, unlike many in the herd, his dam had shared with him her macabre plans – ones drenched in gold and sparkling light, all a lure to hide the rot beneath.

Momma was smart, and powerful; that she didn’t win her wars with physical dominance was something I felt great pride for and wished to emulate, even if Uncle couldn’t and judged her for it.

As he turns to cussing over the Doctor, my eyes grow round and surprised; even momma hadn’t been so volatile, and the man had been throwing insults at her like a professional slandering cannon. As if he notices the change in my face, or perhaps only realizes that his statement was crass, he elaborates more on d’Artagnan, and I nod in agreement. I myself had much learning to do in this department – my earlier fount of bad language included.

I nod too, when he says mother is not the easiest to get along with. In all honesty, I think the unbearable heat of the desert and the sharp spines of cacti were more comforting and approachable than she was. "So…" I lead, compiling all I’d just heard and trying to repeat it back to him in a new way so he knows I heard him, a trick I’d picked up learning from momma – the lesson always ended if I could spit her rhetoric back at her, "they don’t like her. But they trust her. And that’s all she needs? All we need, even."

That we didn’t need love or companionship to be great was an ugly truth that hit me with the weight of a thousand boulders; my mind moves to Aithniel, all momma had said of her, and suddenly it all makes sense. Aithniel may love him, and seek the love of his dam, but she was only a reason to not trust them, proof that my dam had strayed from the path so carefully drawn by Psyche and Mauja – her worries over the girl were suddenly much more founded and sensible to me. That it meant my own life had already been stunted by her presence is a painful thing to think of, one I don’t really want to dwell on as it makes me frown and makes my heart well up with a cold, bitter sensation.

No; Aithniel was not a burden, or a risk. She was my sister, and I loved her. The rest of them would just have to learn to. The rest of them would see.

Thankfully, we’re moving on to the better part of the day, the one involving some work and a whole lot of fun. I feel the weight of the burlap flop down across my shoulders and feel the first beaming rays of my smile come to life as we move out towards the storage cave, father loping easily with his long, powerful legs and my own more assertively darting behind him to keep up, occasionally shifting my strides to keep the bag in place as it threatens to billow free.

We stop just outside the entrance and both make our way in, Dad with his strong, assured strides and me with my bouncy elated ones. He explains the types of metals and their use, and I nod in understanding as I drop my muzzle and wiggle out from under the sack he’s let me borrow. Grasping at the closest chunk of red toned metal I see, I take in its smooth coldness against my lips for a moment before slipping it inside, moving on to a gleaming, silvery chunk. There is a slight difference in the way they feel, as if the pale metals are softer in nature than the ruddy ones, but it is equally as cold against my tongue.

Once I have the bag as full as I can manage and not topple over once I pick it up with my teeth and swing it across my shoulders, I look up at father as we begin to take our leave of the cave, hearing his question and burning with excitement. Its too early yet to hope that he asks me for a creation of my own – but I take a good moment to think it over before I answer, not having ever really thought of it before and wanting to be sure I answer as truthfully as I can. "Hmmm," I say, little hooves making clopping noises beneath me and my tail swaying lazily behind me, "I’ve always liked cats, maybe because of Irelyn and Kyst – but I think its just their grace. And the other day we saw the most hilarious squirrel with tufts coming off of his head. Momma didn’t know what kind it was though."

[ OOC: He speaks of the Abert's Squirrel. ;D Hahaha. ]

in every heart a hole