Soairse’s plea for forgiveness sinks in his bones, before sweeping his gaze down to an encroaching black cloud. A midnight, starry canvass of a filly appears to have found her way to him. The boy stiffens, wings press snug into his sides and ‘fidget’ by shuffling and ruffling them at the same time. He wonders if he’s made them upset, the way their ears flatten against their head, and the way their eyes…

It’s hard to say if she does have eyes or not. They’re obscured up until the filly, sure-footed and closer now, takes her stand without an expression to confirm his thoughts. Saoirse just stares into eyes he can’t seem to find, under a layer of scars that wafts with the scent of saline. A slight, growing grimace threatens to break his otherwise timid composure.

He jumps as the much taller of the duo snaps at him.

‘Is she going to tell on me? Who’s she going to tell? The Queen, our King?!’

“Ah-! I was, you know – Iwantedtocheckthisplaceout, th-that’s all!” He stomped his hoof in an attempt to be defiant, but it was weak and shook slightly as he realized her eyes looked like they’d been gouged out at some point.

Was this Sunny’s punishment? Was this the reaper, to inflict a proper lesson?

When blasphemy rings out from her lips, Saoirse takes a moment to step back. Figuratively and physically. An air of confusion twisted within his gaze, and shadowed over his previous, crawling fear with a tilt and frown.

“How do you know that?” He said rather pointedly. Maybe she wasn’t the reaper after all…, “He cares about all of us. He protects us, gives us… direction and all that.” Honestly, the boy couldn’t quite read out the fine print of what the Sun God had ‘done’ for the Throat. He’s sure he can account (maybe?) a few legends here and there, but the boy’s devotion sparks – and he offers an awkward, weak laugh.

The boy hasn’t quite taken his eyes away from the filly’s. It still has him shaken up. And takes him a moment to register that she’s asked him a question.

“I’m not that young,” the boy says softly. His lips press together in a thin line.

“I don’t know where she is. She left…” Saoirse attempts to say this plainly. But the emotions that buzz and twist behind his eyes, adds to a brief waver in his throat. And before it can escape him in any form, the boy swallows it down and tries to deflect the same question back to her.

“Where’s your mom?”

Saoirse tilts his head, sending a flop of red forelock against the other eye. He wants to ask her the question. The very obvious one… But the boy stays his tongue for the time being. Shifting his gaze to the side to find disfigured wings, where large, sprawling feathers should be.

Maybe… he’s not out of the woods yet. This could be a test, he remarks in his own head this time. But something about the filly seemed almost too real. That this form was the one she’d been given from birth – and that begged to question; why?

It gnawed within him. It tickled his focus.