There is an odd fascination that the noisy have with silence. It draws something unique in everyone, although prevalent themes seem to stand out most prominently. Often I have found that the quiet surrounding me causes others to whisper and soften, as if they have intruded upon a new plane of existence that does not permit the ruckus of beyond. Others seem to think the opposite, perhaps fearful of the pale hum of nothing. They rebel against it, their voices rising until they sound like rain on a hollow, metal cave.

Then still others, feel the need to fill the void with something. I wonder if they think that talking enough for the both of us would perhaps gift me with their speech, or that they're doing me a favor in providing the static of normal life. Maybe it's just a guilty conscious ringing in their ears, only finally heard when their voices stop. Once heard they are driven mad and pour it out of themselves, fervent to be rid of the beating heart echoing in the hollow of their mind.

I glance at Ahriman as he begins to talk, wondering which place he will slip into, especially considering his deft avoidance of being like any of the others in that first application. Where there has always been sameness he is so far different, but we can only be so different before we are once again, same.

He speaks gradually, which implies he feels no fevered rush to be rid of weights pressing on his soul. I flick my ears towards him, a sign that I am readily listening, one thing I am very good at. The lack of a voice gives strength to those in others, who otherwise find themselves drowned out. The mice stand up and become bears. I think Ahriman is use to being the mouse, all ears and little else. Yet now I am the ears, with nothing more to give, and so he begins to stand.

I bump my muzzle on his shoulder when he speaks of his departure from our home. My paintings have stopped for now, my interest captivated and my resources saved for communication. I let him catch my gaze, deep with thought, but not judgmental. He has not been the first to leave a home - I have gone through many in my young age. We must follow our hearts, although I realize now, I will miss him. Strange how we only ever learn to miss something once we lose it. I had a companion nesting right beside me and never knew until he'd flown away. Now I've got nothing but sticks, feathers and shit.

Ahriman continues, his words a soft patter of sound in this dingy mist. He has a calm and casual way about him that I enjoy, but an age to him that I lament, given the truth to his seasons. This latest confession wriggles into my very gut, casting my ears to settle uncertainly on my poll. I am no one to follow in the footsteps of, being an orphan with no parents to care for me or for me to care for, so my ideas are skewed.

I begin to craft a painting, depicting first one horse, dark in color, then a second horse. The second is Ahriman. I have made him only an outline, so that he is as pale as I can design, and I've made him smaller than the first horse, his mother, at least to start. I have him grow, soon standing above her. He is her protector, her guardian, though she should be his with her age shown by her height.

I glance at him.

I then draw a third horse. This one is messy and sketchy, owning no identity. It stand level with Ahriman's, then above.
I want to know, who will care for Ahriman when he is caring for others, least of all the one that is supposed to be caring for him?