I….actually wasn’t going to see that crowd gathered around something that was obviously interesting. For one thing, it was the beach—with sand—and it was awful and I wanted to get out of there as fast as possible. Second, I hurt--

--everywhere--

--and I was in no position to jump into a group brawl. No, believe me, the thought pass through my mind; it was tempting, but I had places to go, things to do, evil to thwart. No, I had to take my merry ass on away from there.

Except I couldn’t for whatever reason. I’m…still not sure why. It was one of those inexplicable feelings that I get in the gut, like an emotion but it’s obvious it’s not coming from me--like how Pa’s magic works sometimes and draws me to him, that spark of his connecting with my spark, or whatever. But this wasn’t that kind of spark; it was too nice to belong to the strange magic that I wield, too plushy, too warm, too…

…happy?

I stood there for a while just feeling this…draw, as though whatever fantastic thing in the crowd needed me and only me to approach it. So when I did, I was cautious, kind of leering at everybody and shuffling my way towards the middle of the crowd. An egg was nestled there, all snug and cheerful in the shadows of these grown-ass horses, the receiver of so much affection and attention. Horses were singing around me, beautiful melodies and god-awful howlings, inspired by the queer magic of this egg. My face still hurt from the fire-bears--along with my neck and shoulders and pretty much my entire body—but still, I found myself fumbling for words, and maybe a tune—and hesitating multiple times, because I don’t even know how to talk, much less sing.

"Okay," I said, taking a deep breath—then another, and another, until I finally decided to hell with it and barked it out:



“You want me to sing, so I’ll do it,
You asked me to belt, so I’ll try,
It hurts really bad for my lips to move,
But you asked me to give you a song.



“Um…” I clamped my mouth shut, stumped, and stared at the egg from the longest time. Because the kind of happiness it was radiating felt like—well, it was a kind of happiness I hadn’t felt myself in a long time. And it was weird, because I wasn’t the one feeling it, so it was just rolled up in my chest some weird way, brushing against my own abrasive bitterness; tangling with it, fighting it almost, like it was trying to wrestle it into submission. I definitely felt that, the battle between this bliss and the panic and temper I sheltered daily. There was no way I couldn’t. It pulled at the back of my throat and made my eyes sting; my breathing got shallow and my head started swimming with something airy and light and sad all at the same time. Familiarity? Or…no, what’s that word?
Nostalgia?

I’m not sure how I found more words to sing—but they came rushing out in a hurry:



“Alone in the sand’s kinda shitty,
Just trust me: I know that it sucks,
It gets in your eye and itches like hell,
And it’s stupid and awful and wrong.”



Yeah, because the beach was a terrible place to keep an egg. I was actually starting to get irritated, righteously angry that something had left their offspring to die here. Then there came that gentle, glittering feeling again, entwining itself inside me until it hurt; wrestling with the tempter that had become so easy for me. The egg was so happy that it was in love--but not the kind of gross-love that nasty people like to do from time to time. Or the mushy crap that horses do when they gather under a tree with rotting fruit-petals. This love was pure, like a child; like it was so content with everything, so peaceful and excited to see everything and meet everyone, without any sort of care in the world.

It’d been years since I felt like that. Back when I roamed the Foothills like I was some big shit—and I probably was, surrounded by this huge family of mercenaries, my Ma and my Auntie at its helm—and Jiji by my side and Bro behind, watching over me, making sure I didn’t trip over myself and eat dirt. And now here I was, having plucked everyone worth any kind of a damn out of my life, one by one, mistake by mistake.

This time I was aware of every word I sang as I looked down that this egg lying so hopeful in the sand.



“You’re pale like the moon—or some ivory(?),
You’re smooth and you’re round, like a ball,
I bet you they think you’re gonna be great,
Like you’re gonna grow up to be strong.”



Jeez, I thought to myself—surprised with how my breath was shaking and how my face was hurting and how something heavy was rattling entirely too hard inside my chest. I was ashamed and irritated to feel tears threaten to pinprick behind my eyes, all because of some shitty song I was singing to an egg that probably couldn’t even hear it. Was I going crazy?

Maybe. Because I wasn’t done singing a damn song.



“My chest and my lungs are on fire,
But I’m cool, if it means that I sing
Just so you know that you have me
To whisper all day: 'You belong!'”



Because maybe, I thought, that’s what it was really wanting. Just someone—a whole crowd of people, actually— to soothe it and tell it that it was okay to be so happy; it was okay to be born to an exciting place, and no, we wouldn’t let it turn into a shithole before they were born. We’ll keep it nice and clean for you; we’ll save you a seat.

In retrospect, the egg was kind of a dick.


[Wishlist--Royal Electric Rougarou. No prior refusals.]




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