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Saoirse’s mind wanders as he stares at the statue. Wonders about his mother, and of an absent, theoretical father. Was she alright? He thought. She had her moments of clarity, a place for him in her heart – from her soft coos, to her encouraging smiles. But more often than Saoirse would like to admit, she had also been sad. And he could see it so plainly sometimes; its source lost in the depth of her eyes. Somehow he felt responsible for that sadness, but wasn’t entirely sure why – other than he’d failed multiple times to cause her lips to upturn. And if he couldn’t make her happy, what could possibly resolve this long and warring sadness within her?
He closed his eyes shut for a moment, taking a deep breath in – the smell of the flowers, their pollen – filled his senses. Calmed the boy.
‘Dear God of the Sun…’ - the boy’s mind blanked. Was he doing this right? What if the Sun God preferred certain words and praises? How would he know to do either of those correctly?
A clearing throat startles such thoughts. His squeak is muffled in the bundle of flowers he has yet to drop, and does a quick 180 hop to face the stranger behind him. Ears pressed forwards, wings flapping out like a ruffled goose – all awkward like. He could feel the heat in his cheeks when he found the filly across from him. The sound of his heart, once more, pounding heavy and warm in his ears.
“H-hrowh,” he mumbles through the flowers. Then decides to place them down just off from the descending stairs. Trying to quietly dislodge the small pieces of flora that had stuck to his tongue. Offering plehs and thss echoing out unceremoniously into the chambers.
Before greeting the other he shakes his head in the cover of the dividing wall, as if that would knock some sense into him or something. And darts out into the view of the filly, climbing up the few steps to greet her.
“Hello!” He offers a shy smile in return. His leonine tail sways like a pleased pup. Imagine that! He’d been lonely for so long, Sunny must have sent him a friend to play with!
“Ah… did you come here to talk to the Sun God too?” He decides to close the distance. Abandoning his flowers, and prayers for the time being to seek out the vaguely familiar filly. “Say, do you know how to talk to him? Do you think he cares about that kind of thing?” He stops with a more comfortable distance between them, tilting his head quite noticeably, a flop of red forelock following his motion.
She’s pretty and different. There are no wings that sprout from her sides, or horns from her head - mother doesn’t have horns either (are his suspicious thoughts). But the spider webs that dance across her pale skin are momentarily mesmerizing. He may have drawn his gaze across them, if not for the pointedly red orbs that peer out at him. Oblivious to the dagger between the girl’s hooves.
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