Up, and up, and up the spry child went, carried towards the distant ceiling by the lightness of his young body—and the foolish courage of his mind and heart. Somewhere along his ascent Mauja saw the telltale shadow of wings, and some of the display started to make sense. The scrape of hoof rang lightly around the room, sometimes faded nearly into silence before striking again, and then, suddenly, the shape paused far up above. Mauja's head was tilted back, blue eyes staring up into the depths of light and shifting color, the dull ache of both body and mind buried beneath his curiosity. It seemed logical that what he would do now was take off, soar down to the floor, because what creature that young wanted to murder itself? And Mauja, he knew nothing of wings, if a foal that young was able to hold its own weight or not—simply assumed that he knew what he was doing (or that he was a sorry thing).

The echoes finally faded into as complete a silence as you could find in the caves, both child and man waiting—but for what? Courage? A gust of stale air through the glittering tunnels? Then, finally, it seemed the colt spotted his spectator from his lofty perch. His young, light voice cried out into the round cave, bouncing off the walls in a distorted choir. Watch this? But what if I'd be blind?

Oh, the assumptions of the young. His lips turned into a half-smile, yet he obeyed, blue eyes locked onto the monochrome form. From so far down below he didn't see the bunching of muscles, the steep angle of his fall, until his uneven flight brought him lower. Wings strained against air, the control not yet fine-tuned; his arc was drunk at the best, Irma's amused disdain for this ungraceful fledgling seeping like a warm wine through his veins. Not that the owl had been very graceful at first either, but isn't life about perfecting your skills, learning, becoming more than you were? What life would upon death be well-lived, if you were just the same as you were born as?

The colt touched down, unsteady as a newborn, stumbled and nearly fell. Mauja was just thankful he'd not been landed on, as it wouldn't have been very pleasant in his current state, fever-headache and healing wounds and all. For a moment he said nothing, did nothing, just peered down at the child still stuck in his awkward position, legs splayed for balance he just barely had—but the silence was broken by steps coming from behind, through the crack. One black-rimmed ear angled back, listening to the sound growing louder, ricocheting around the walls as the colt found his tongue and feet again. Mauja's smile grew into a crooked grin. If he was this pleased with success.. had he expected it?

Then he was off, bucking about the room, and the approaching stranger made himself known by nearly pushing Mauja to the side. Feeling utterly polite, in an icy, irritated sort of way, Mauja took a single step to the side, slow and cautious to prevent setting off his pounding headache again. And succeeded, mostly. Then the kid was back, looking so proud of his wobbly flight, staring up with the kind of eager eyes Mauja had a hard time pushing down. You didn't pour water on the flames of youth, but praising someone for something done kind of.. awfully wasn't his forte. A short stream of good-humored laughter fled from his maw. "Of course I couldn't have," he replied amiably enough. "I don't have any wings." He tilted his head (very carefully) to the side, content to ignore the strange man for now. He didn't even know what it was he'd tried to say as he passed Mauja, some garbled nonsense and his jaws looked swollen anyway. "I'm Mauja, and.." Well, what's the best way to suggest someone shouldn't do something? Without being cruel? So it was with a conversationally warm voice he went on, ".. don't you think it's better to do it once successfully, than try for a second time and maybe fail?"

Because let's be honest, given his wobbly flight, the next time he could just as well hit a wall and break something.