You're getting stronger. Bits of fluff have been falling from your body as the heat increases, winter protection sloughing off as the sun swells high above. Now, you're sleek and dark, a moving shadow rolling about between the rocky walls of the valley. Even the wings at your sides glisten furtively, shy crow's feathers whispering to the sky as the sun sings its song of hot hot hot down on everything. Beads of sweat gather on your flanks until you think of the seaside again, of playing tag with wavelets or whatever else you did when you were smaller and more easily preoccupied. Perhaps you ought to find the sea again, make up new games, chase seabirds and grab their tail feathers between your teeth. That sounds fun! Off you go.

Unfortunately, your sense of direction leaves something to be desired. I'm not even sure which direction you're trying to go, but you end up in a corner of the Basin you've ventured toward only rarely, if at all. The smell of wet assaults your nose first, thick and oddly suffocating. Perturbed, alarmed, curious, about this new sensation, you hesitate and your small body draws upright. Your tail flags in a perfect what the fuck? expression you've mastered at an exceedingly young age, and a moment later you leap forward, wings flapping uselessly at your sides. Though you've yet given no conscious thought to using the over-sized decorations, you flex them almost constantly when you move now, as if your body recognizes the need to tone and control those muscles, and does now at every opportunity. Anyway, you leap up to the hot springs flapping and clattering in a not-very-graceful-at-all way, certain you're alone, until you're definitely not alone and wow! Another foal!

Of course, you stop dead, because your reaction to the most mundane of encounters is to act like you've never in your life met anyone else, ever, in the world. Then you get self-conscious because you're afraid she might see you and you shuffle away, fixing your dark eyes on the water (no don't look over here). Perhaps if you are mostly still and very self-possessed, she will not crowd your personal space like that lemon-scented girl at the herd meeting had. Perhaps.... Curiosity tickles the back of your mind.

At best, the encounter goes like this: she ignores you. You watch her. Eventually, you lose all fear and approach and maybe get a new friend. Things never go that way. People never stand still long enough for you to wrap your mind around, so you edge at the periphery of their vision, shuffling your attention and then reshuffling it, begging to be noticed but not to be addressed.

She's very pretty, anyway. You catalogue this thought with nonchalance, oblivious as of now to the intricacies of attraction you will no doubt experience at some point in the future. She reminds you a little of Mama, only her spots are all wrong — much louder — she reminds you of the sun. Unforgiving. You can't quite articulate why, can't yet gather the thoughts to pinpoint brilliant, striking, wheat swaying under the sun. These things flash through your consciousness dimly, so you think of her as something like a personification of Tallsun, though you don't yet understand Tallsun well enough to attribute this impression.

Anyway, you pretend to ignore the girl, because you don't know what else to do. Because you'd rather not leave, you hop up near the water, wings fluttering, and blow at the steam instead. It swirls, reactive and languid, above the simmering water below. How weird. If Mama were here, you'd demand and explanation, but she's not, so you have to puzzle it all out yourself.

You are caught.

Seen.

Then, a remarkable thing happens: nothing. Gradually, the anticipation of action melts from you. You watch the girl; she watches you. It's a furtive dance, strange and silent, but it's nice. Your dark eyes measure the jewel-blue of hers where she stares safely out of the water, her image distorting around the weight of your breath. Because the reflection proves kinder than the truth, you continue watching her in the water as she speaks to you. Her voice is a chime, higher pitched than Mama's but somehow not as delicate as Vesper sounds. You still think of Vesper for an instant, unaware that at this moment you stand opposite another twin, the both of you without your second halves. Because you don't know any of that, though, all you can do is stare at the water and turn over what she said. Too hot. Indeed; you feel the water's heat breathing up into your face even from here, and with Tallsun breathing down your back, you recoil.

A frown creases the delicate curves of your face when she turns her question on you. So absorbed are you in the conundrum facing you down, you miss the clear weight of her eyes as they follow your wings, studying you like a museum specimen. It might unnerve you if you weren't so otherwise occupied, but you're busy staring at your own reflection now, deciding for the fourth or fifth time so far water is treacherous and the you living within doubly so. Your tiny ears twist back; you challenge him with a scowl. And because you don't take anything for granted, you plunge your muzzle into the hot springs without a second thought.

Oh.

Wait — yeah — it is pretty hot! Snorting a fine plume of water droplets, you wheel back, narrowly avoiding an ugly fall by cutting your retreat short and staring in absolute disgust at the water, unable to decide if it's worse or better than the sea, which is fun and interesting but so bitter. Then, ears akimbo, you remember the girl's question. You decide to ignore it. Shaking your head, you demand, in the voice of a young prince and not the utterly random hybrid foal Ki'irha dragged up north months ago, "Why's it hot!" Nice work on the first words, I guess. In all of this, you never once look directly at the girl; you feel better that way. But you clearly address her, and your tone isn't unfriendly so much as it is annoyed. Were you bigger, stronger, braver, you would fight that you in the water and you'd definitely win. But you're small still, Virga.

Your mouth twists into something like a pout when, finally, you tilt your head vaguely in the girl's direction. She has a horn, like you. No wings.

Nobody has wings.

"Where are your wings?" This you ask more kindly, your own obviously stubby appendages now spreading a bit for her benefit. You don't know how they ought to look, of course, so at the moment they seem just fine to you. What's not fine is how no one in the Basin except your sister looks anything like you. It makes you feel kind of.... well, shitty. High time you demanded an explanation.

The girl's concern, had you noticed, would only perplex you further. That anyone (save Mama) might worry for your safety is a rarely occurring thought. That you should worry for safety is laughable. Mortality remains a far-off concept. Pain is a fleeting enemy. So there's no fear in you, and no fear for the girl when she chooses a much more serene course of action in dipping a hoof toward the burning liquid. "I dunno." Unhelpful. She mentions Mama, though, and for an instant you're confused because Mama is your Mama, and no one else's! Except Vesper, though Vesper isn't here right now. Your features narrow into a skeptical frown. Maybe other people have other Mamas? You've definitely met other mares in the Basin.... Couldn't they call theirs something different, though? None are as good as Ki'irha. You might grumble about this privately, but — and hopefully this is a sign of maturity — you keep it inside for now. Other people continue to confuse you.

Quickly the conversation moves on, of course. The girl responds to your (frankly, rude) question about her wings, and though you remain edgy about meeting her gaze, you let your own dark eyes sweep her legs, her haunches, her back.... What is on her back? It's definitely not wings, but it's something. A number of somethings. Your frown furthers, ears tilting back in consternation. What the hell? She's talking, though.

Her parents don't have wings. Ah, then she wasn't trying to claim your mother — just being irritating. A twitch of your growing tail acknowledges this. Who are her parents, anyway? You've met no one quite like her, though now you think of it, there was a golden lady you glimpsed at the meeting. Just as your thoughts begin to fuzz, something moves behind the girl and though you probably ought to have noticed it before, you see now the shape of the young creature standing upon the rocks beside you. Instinctively, you leap back, your hooves landing with a sharp clatter and sliding a bit on the smooth surface, uncertain. Your wings bristle out, black feathers standing briefly on end as your pulse hammers. What the hell?

"...Whale..?" You accuse, your young brain struggling to remember the term. It's like Vesper's, you think. Suddenly your wings fold down, nakedness clouding your mind. Why don't you have one? Why does everyone else? Your narrow head cocks, dainty in its heft, as you inch a step nearer to examine the thing. And it's easy to look at, easier than the girl, because it's eyes don't hold the same weight. Even though Vesper's on the tip of your tongue, you don't mention her; even though your only thought is how my sister has one, you dare not point out your own shortcomings any further. You do notice, though, that Vesper had both whale and wings, so saying this one counts as the girl's is — stupid.

"How'd you get it?" you ask, trying and failing to feign nonchalance. That curious intensity lingers in your voice regardless of intent, promising probably a certain depth of tone when you get older. It isn't quite jealousy twisting the heft of your words now; it's more like awe. Still, you are a bit jealous. Maybe not of the whale itself but of the other kids having something you don't.

Vulture. Oh. What's a whale? Suddenly, you don't know. Confusion wrinkles all the soft parts of your face as your thoughts whirl, circling in on each other. Hadn't Vesper said that...? Vesper wouldn't lie... Maybe your memory's wrong. Maybe you never saw the whale, or misheard, or, or, or....

You tail thrashes once in agitation.

Contemplating the noble action of turning tail and running the fuck away from your own embarrassment, you stare at the — vulture — in consternation. And your thoughts ring, I don't know I don't know Idon'tknow. With a jerk, your head moves in another direction and you stare sullenly at the ground, stupid. What do you know about companions, anyway? They are the realm of Vesper and your father, and not you. Suddenly you miss Mama, but she is absolutely not present to console you. With a huff of air, you mutter, "Dunno," in a tone that denies further explanation. How dare she, how dare you —

But, it turns out being wrong isn't the end of the world. Time moves you along, bound up tightly in its many arms, and the conversation moves on, too. Despite yourself, you're still interested. In silence, then, you listen to the girl's short story about stumbling upon the eggs in the forest — with her brother. This draws a flicker of recognition, a small spark of Ah! I have a sibling, too! This time, you're not jealous of her for copying you, but intrigued by her missing sibling. Is he off doing great things without her, too? Your stubborn gaze returns at last to the girl, but it freezes on the flickering shapes upon her back. This time, after a moment or so of staring, recognition floods your brain.

Duir, you think.

"Ah..!" The noise escapes you without meaning to, a startled and delighted little exhalation. The more you think on it, the more she can't have Duir on her back, but the resemblance is enough to make you glad, and you give a little hop toward her, forgiving your idiocy from a moment ago. "You have two..." you spit out, and your tone is an interesting mix of awe and jealousy and a prickle of impotent rage. (why her?) Wings twitching, you step forward again, your muzzle motioning at the not-quite-beasts playing along her spine. "I don't!" And it's not fair, it's not fair how everyone else has something you desperately want! How this girl just stumbled upon a good thing in the grass with her stupid brother and your sister hasn't even been around in ages!

The girl wastes a lot of breath disagreeing, but you ignore it because the Duirs are there, right there in front of your face and you're not stupid! Like a wolf you approach, your body stiff and stalking. Her next words hurtle through your narrow concentration only with effort. Several seconds after she speaks, you stop, blink, and process the new information. "That's not a companion. That's my magic." There's a difference? Head up, you chew it over. You don't actually know what magic is. You only know about companions because Vesper and your father have them. Of course, you don't know anything about them. You don't know about much, actually. The true depths of your ignorance peek at you now, as you gape at the girl's back, and you feel again a small, dull creature surrounded by the much bigger world.

"Does it hurt?" Your head falls to one side as you ask, features crunched together in a mighty frown. It's a thinking frown, at least, and not an angry one. Thinking often paints your features with a pained expression. You don't know why it would, but it is.... weird. A quick glance at your own back reveals no such weirdness, just the familiar landscape of spine and wings.

As the girl speaks again, you glance back, assured by her piping voice that you won't be hurt, the magic is harmless! Huh. Still a bit skeptical, you inch forward. She urges you touch it, and you move as if to comply, but you feel a little weird about the whole situation. Touch is, after all, your native language, something secretive and private. You give these things freely to Mama and sometimes to Vesper, but to push any part of your body against a stranger — even to think of it — snags at the insides of your head. Is that okay? Is it? Nobody's around to tell you no. You can't find a good reason in your own head not to, so tentatively — so tentatively — your nose uncurls, your swan's neck stretches, and your nostrils flutter with utmost delicately at the flickering shapes along the girl's spine.

It isn't how you expected. You don't know how you expected, but it isn't that. Almost trembling, you recoil very slowly back into yourself. And you feel strange, a little raw, a little ready to go somewhere dark and curl up and sleep. Your gaze darts away from the girl to rest upon something, anything, else as your mind seeks distance. There's an odd, confused buzzing on your skin and through your nerves; you don't know if you like it or not. And her words are chiming again, so many of them, like small bells in your ears. You don't quite respond; just nod. You feel quite dull in comparison to all she is, though, and you don't know what to do about it. Weariness eases the fires of your impetuous soul. They gutter low, demanding rest and fuel, longing for Mama's voice and her far more familiar touch.

"Mama doesn't have any..."

They reflect in the black of your eyes as they shift: strange, thick beasts made up from wavering tongues of light, marching down her spine as if to battle. You stare at them unblinking, the word magic rolling like the tide through your skull. The girl is a strange and beautiful thing, in your eyes — a wondrous and precious thing. Her voice is kind in answer to your melancholy. Even stubborn as you are, unyielding as the oldest and most gnarled of tree roots, you let go of the darker feelings plaguing your chest in favor of her voice, her light. She's asked a question, anyway. You're getting used to answering now, though the ceaseless flow of words nears a point of exhaustion the further you go.

"Mama?" Your brows crease as confusion burrows between them. Mama is your mama, of course. The memory of her swells in your head, dark and glittering, resplendent in her quiet confidence. A little late, you remember not everyone calls her Mama because of course she isn't to everyone. "Oh!" How silly of you. "Mama is Ki'irha the General," you say proudly, remembering the meeting you snuck into a while ago. Then, just because you learned the fact recently and you're on a roll reciting your lineage, you add, "Mesec is my father." You don't know him very well; he's beautiful and strange, distant as a star even though Mama wears more of the night sky on her back. Still, you feel a little thrill as you say it, naming yourself, placing yourself here in the world. "Who's yours?" you ask the girl, glancing again at the beasts on her back, and wondering if her parents look like that only bigger, fearsome and bright. You don't particularly want to meet them.

There's a moment where you pause, maybe thinking about your own name — maybe just catching your breath. A lot swirls in your head right now, and your poor brain leans toward exhaustion. How do other people do this? Talk all day? Ears flicking, dulled by the fullness in your skull and by the desire to roll the word Kiada around until it loses meaning, you say, "Virga," to the rocks underfoot. Looking at something else tires you out less than looking at her. "Good meeting you," you add, because Ki'irha the General's son isn't entirely a wild animal, a thing without social understanding. You never expected her name to hang on you like a weight quite so much as it does now — like she's watching even if she isn't present.