Яikyn

He watches the light(s) dance, and the others dance, a smile slowly growing on his face, despite that his belly clenches tight in embarrassment at their abandon. His sing song noise inspired it, he thinks to himself, selfishly, the way he thinks a lot of things.

But that’s going to change, isn’t it?

The being(s) seem to lull and expand at the same time, a sort of magical transcendence that only light has, and with the eagerness that he faces all new things, he feels its warm touch envelope him, piercing through the smallest pieces of himself that make up who he is: grains of sand.

How, in summer, inches deep, the beach is hot, before it is suddenly cool as water.

Gone, when he breathes in deep this eternal summer, the strange power in the magic that beckons in their song; as they fade, he watches them simply cease with a wonder as to whether or not they knew how very pitiful it made the physical forms about them seem. For no particular reason he can recount, even when he thinks back on it years later, other than perhaps the song of the strange light being(s) had asked him to, the stallion tears his eyes away from the hovering ring that had only seconds ago encompassed a pillar, and down to his hooves; the others are forgotten immediately, becoming shadows outside a curtained window.

All his muscles tighten, aureate eyes broadening with the surprise that they have chosen him, the wild boy, the ass hole, the child who threw his family away, to protect the thing for which they had so shrilly condemned the dark hybrid for merely attempting to touch.

Why?

Had it - they - felt that darkness, that relentless sea of cold that tugged at his ankles?

The orb smells like warmth, like warmth beating down on stones, when he lowers his nose to smell it. It shimmers with golden rivulets and ivory speckles, with the deep, russet tones of a forest, highlighted by the warm green black glow of emerald summer, in the depths of night. He thinks of Kirchoff, laughing in the grass, of Kyst’s grouchy mewling chatter as he’d playfully nipped at her wings, a colt eager to tempt her temper.

Who are you? he can’t help but wonder as he nudges the thing with his nose, gently rolling it onto the thick tassels of his tail, brought about in a strange C curve of his figure to be more easily kept up off the watery surface, to allow him time to ponder how he’ll go about toting the thing from place to place.

there's no place to hide down here