The golden prince's introduction to the world was less than favorable, in fact, he found it quite annoying. He decided the world was too cold, too damp and the tongue against his coat was too rough. Therefore, his first thought was something along the lines of simply ugh, with the only redeemable traits he saw in the world being the golden mare next to him and the pretty, pretty colors. But that didn't change the fact that the golden was all over him.

His oceanic eyes opened for the first time to give the golden creature next to him an irritated glance, but quickly forgot his annoyance upon seeing her. He looked to her body, then to his, eyes flicking back and forth between their golden shades. Neato. His legs faded to black, too. Even neater. She smelled nice, she smelled like all he had ever known and needed to know. He didn't know what to call her yet, but this didn't change the fact that she was undoubtedly his.  

But her prodding and pushing was still annoying. He snorted, objecting the golden mare’s nudges as she nosed him to stand. If he knew of words then, he would’ve said, ‘no, I think I'd like to go to sleep now.’ But the child knew nothing of speaking, he only knew what he felt. He felt like curling up, closer to the golden, to his mother, and napping within her embrace. She was relentless in her nudging, though, finally prodding the boy to comply with her lyrics, for they sounded foreign and uncomfortable to him.

He did so unwillingly, mostly because his legs felt so awkward when taken from underneath him. He struggled to rise, falling to his knees a couple times before shakily standing. He smiled to himself, pride building up in his small chest. He had been born moments before, but he was feeling confident in himself.

The boy turned to his mother with a grin, flicking his dark, silvery tail back and forth. And so his second thought was something along the lines of I am really great. But his thought was hastily forgotten, for another soul was approaching them. He instinctively leaned into his mother, hind legs fumbling backwards, an attempt at hiding underneath her. But the blue mare sang sweet melodies, ones that sounded foreign still, but less urgent than the ones that poured from his mother.

When she reached her muzzle out, the boy hesitantly flicking his ears backward. He finds the muzzle is meant for him, but to do what with, he does not know. But he knows that blue isn't present on his body, or his mother's, and he wants to touch it. He stretched his neck out, bumping his muzzle against the blue's softly, squealing gleefully when he found it to be soft and warm. But he found gold to be just as warm as blue, and withdrew his muzzle to nurse for the first time. (Because all that muzzle bumping is obviously exhausting and he is clearly starving.)