Perhaps someone smarter than Thèo would muse that the reason the boy always acted as if someone was watching him (and so he adjusted his actions accordingly), was because there was constantly a spotlight upon him. Despite the diffused lighting of the autumn afternoon, a column of light seemed to filter down towards the ashen boy, highliting him at all times. Sunlight glistened brightly off of the boy, whose curiosity had pulled him out towards the reddish dunes. That was when he caught sight of Isrka.
Thèo only knew that the sparking-bayish creature was Ampere's son, and little else. He didn't know much about the electric mare, despite his own mother's communal attitude when it came to child-rearing. Already Thèo knew many in the herd, for he had gone to them for guidance and to answer his questions, the way regular children would go to their own parents. Aithniel was around, but already Thèo had understood that blood was not the only tether that made you family. Like his Father, the pale tribrid considered the entire Dragon's Throat to be his extended kin.
So despite the fact that Thèo didn't know much about Ampere (she had her own child to raise, after all), or Iskra, he bounded happily towards the other colt, without trepidation or fear.
"M'ath!" He called, his young voice singing across the sands. M'ath was a word he had picked up from his older siblings, a word that he had been told meant hello in the language of his Father. Knowing this pleased the boy both as a budding scholar, but also as a romantic. Speaking the same words that his Father would have used made the boy feel closer to his departed sire. He could tell himself that the light from the sky was Gaucho looking down upon him - perhaps even with his grandsire, the God of the Sun himself, in tow - but there was no way of knowing whether that was true. At least with Gaucho's language, barbaric and foreign in his young mouth as it might be, it felt like a real connection.
"I'm Mathèo. You're Iskra, right?" An easy, boyish smile wafted across his face.
mathèo
When the white flag sails, covered in streaks of blood
There'll be an endless sea, of us rising up.
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