this old world has brought me pain
               but there's hope for me again

Others come, and the sunset mare shies away from their approach. How does she know that they are not dangerous, that they will not hurt her? She thinks of the monster that attacked here not so very long ago, remembers how all she was able to do was lay in the water and sob. The other equines that appeared on that day hadn't had the slightest bit of interest in her - no, they had all been noble and brave, and they had put her and her cowardice to shame. She hesitates in her dance around the circle, thinking that perhaps it would be best if she departed; but something bids her to stay, invites her to continue prancing along with the ring of light(s).

The light-creatures bloom and blossom, spinning and twirling all the while, morphing against her retinas until she can no longer tell if they are anything but a trick of the sun. Again she finds herself wondering what they are and where they came from, if they are the protectors of the egg held at their center. Or perhaps it is only one long, winding, twisting creature, and it is holding the egg as its own child. Persephone is unsure, and her bewilderment incites fear in her chest. She bites her tongue, continues her dance, refuses to leave the egg in the clutches of whatever the light-thing(s) is (are). Even if she skirts a few meters away, just to be safe.

The egg begins to rise, and she gasps -- "No." -- it is not safe, can't they (it) see? She glances around at the others assembled, for surely they will not allow such a precarious situation to evolve. By the time the egg finally stops rising, the sunset mare is fully and completely distressed: it is too high, and it is too far away for her to save it, and she would have to go through those (that) thing(s) to get there. Still, she cannot help but hope that she, and not anyone else, is the one to reach it first.

Still, she hesitates. The pillar on which the egg rests seems sturdy enough (for now), and she is not one to go rushing in valiantly, much less without any sort of plan. She notices a small depression, a place that almost seemed as though it could be pushed. The light-creature(s) spin faster, blurring until she can no longer make out any distinct form. She has halted her dance and shifts her weight uncertainly from one side to the other, her breath beginning to come in shorter and shorter gasps. There is nothing that she can do, not without going through the light - and despite how much she wants to be the hero that the egg deserves, she finds herself paralyzed with fear on the edge of the ring, staring up at the precarious egg and hoping against hope that she can find a way to help it.

Persephone