Arakh has always thought there is something...eternal about his father.

It isn't just the fact that he is still too young to grasp the concept of death, that he has no reason to suspect there is anything other than life. He has seen his mother's lion hunt down deer and rabbits and eat their flesh when they stop moving, but he assumed that was just something that happened to other creatures. Not horses. And certainly not Ave.

He has come to the Throat to see his father, and there is a spring in his step like there always is. He comes and goes often, especially now his mother has slackened her grip somewhat and accepted that he needs to make his own way to the Throat and back without being smothered by her. He usually comes with Esinakh, but today he comes alone, keen to try out his newfound wings without his sister there to see his multiple faceplants. The colt is getting better, however, and his wings are growing stronger with every flight he takes. He can't go very high, or very fast, but his talent in the air has improved infinitely since his first shameful landing in the Throat's ocean.

When he enters the now-familiar territory of the Throat, he's rather surprised to see quite a gathering within its borders. He lands from his low glide and breaks into a trot, bull-horned head held high as he approaches the group of horses. Some of them, he knows, must be his brothers and sisters, but he has eyes only for his father, who lays slumped on the ground. Not moving. Not breathing. The colt's gaze narrows and he moves closer, wondering why his father is sleeping so soundly when there's so much going on. There's even a majestic stallion stood nearby who fits the description of the Sun God, and Arakh's eyes widen in awe.

But why does everyone look so...sad? The boy's brow furrows and he wanders ever closer, wondering why people are taking feathers from his father. That's a bit rude! What if he wakes up and attacks them? Nearer and nearer he gets, until the still and steady form of his sire is close enough to touch. "Ave wake up," he demands of his sire. The calf's muzzle extends to softly touch his father's hide, expecting to feel the gentle rise and fall of breath - but he feels nothing. Concern begins to bubble, but it isn't overwhelming; there must be an explanation. "Why Ave sleep here? Not safe for Ave to sleep here." He pokes the Wildfire's side again, suddenly alarmed by how cold it is. Gaucho was never cold. He was warm, and strong, and eternal, and why won't he wake up?

He looks around at everybody else gathered - he is just a small and insignificant addition to an already swelling crowd, but why is he the only one trying to wake his father? Are none of the others worried at all? "Why none of you try to wake Ave?" His gentle prodding grows more insistent, and he's really beginning to fret now because nobody sleeps this deeply. His eyes begin to burn but he doesn't know why, and he feels wet warmth trickle down his cheek - what can that possibly be? "Please wake up. Arakh need his Ave." This last sentence is spoken as a breathy whisper into his father's ear, whilst the colt's whole body begins to shudder and he falls to his knees beside the not-burning remains of the Wildfire.