Your nose is a tiny twitching thing, your breathing heavy (or as heavy as your breathing could be with those little bird’s lungs of yours) as you watch your Paaaapa’s eyes veer away from you. You feel a weight leave you, a large thing that had been growing in your chest as you lost yourself in the depths of those deep grey eyes. You give a tiny grunt at their absence, and he does not seem to notice.

It aches when he doesn’t notice you—Bringer of Pain, He Who Allows Life. You want him to look again; you want to feel that wash of grey on you, you want more, more, more!

You sneeze, like many babies do with their minuscule annoyances. He still does not look at you; he’s speaking, a low guttural rumble in the pit of your chest as he addresses Mother. Oh, yes little Enyo, you have a mother! You follow his gaze behind you, to a mass of sweaty, matted silver fur. Hunh. That is your Mother, trembling pile of flesh that she is. You’ll grow more interested in her later, of course. I’m sure you will. But for now, your eyes trail away, the disinterest creeping, creeping, creeping once more—until your gaze falls upon sister, and you learn another thing: blood.

Your sister’s face is covered in it; her eye is stained with it. You give another snort and your voice escapes: “Oh!” What has happened to your sister, Enyo? Do you know what has happened? Of course you don’t; you were so very nearly crushed by your beloved Paaaapa, you had no time to witness the fury of the harpy feathers fluttering upon the ruins of your sister’s face. Hmm. I’m not sure whether to blame you or not for such an oversight.

No matter; you’re not thinking like you should be. Your filly’s brain is much too small and flighty to consider implications like that. You see sister. You want sister. You smell the blood and you come to associate blood and pain with each other. See? You have the makings of cleverness already, don’t you?

You know Paaaapa is watching. His eyes are creeping along your spine, even as you spring your legs beneath you, attempting, once more, to bring them to heel, to make them work. Your chest is in pain, yes, and so is your neck, so is every piece of you that your Father tried to grind to dust. You still try, though. Of course you fail—many times. It’s expected of a baby to fail. But they sting anyway, those failures of yours, especially under the glow grey coals of your Father’s eyes. Oh, Paaaapa, be merciful! She’s trying, y’know.

Ah, there it is! You manage a precarious balance beneath you, your legs damp paper twigs doing their absolute best to carry your weight, as slight as it is. It is a start. You attempt to walk, and of course those are failures as well—but somehow you do manage it, eventually (I will spare you your embarrassment, little Enyo, and gloss over those rare moments of clumsiness, as long as I don’t witness it Ever Again). You make your way to your sister’s face, your nostrils huffing, twitching, smelling her scent, smelling her blood, seeing the glimmer of her eyes as she looks up into Father’s face.

You follow her gaze and your balance is acceptable. He’s seen how you can stand, now.