The boy's as light as the sparks dancing around his wings. Looking at him, you feel a little heavier — a little darker. His voice is so loud and thin, so childish, you wonder if you ever sounded like that. But no, Virga — some instinct closed your mouth until your mind learned dignity, didn't it? You snort an almost laugh to answer the boy's childish enthusiasm, and something brilliant, something lively, glitters in the blackness of your eyes. "A monster?" Now, here's a chance for you to look really cool. This kid's undoubtedly younger than you, a phenomenon you've so far been too small yourself to encounter. It's sort of dizzying, in a way. "I eat monsters," you lie, and your voice is a little too intense for it to be a joke, but a moment later the boy's talking about fishes, and it's okay, really — you're socializing, you feel good about this, even if chasing tiny animals about in the water is about as boring a game as things get —

You don't notice your father, at first.

Well, maybe you notice him, but by now his presence is like the sky, like the earth underfoot. It's a constant; it's unremarkable. Your attention only shifts away from Iskra when he's close enough to brush a wing over your back, and something warm as milk but better, bigger, spills through your heart and tells you, you belong here. The good feeling buoys significantly when you notice Vesper trots along beside your father, and immediately your ears come up, joy scrawling itself again and again across your face. "Vesper!" Oh, she can play with Iskra, too! You can all chase each other together, maybe, instead of the fishes!

But then —

But then something is happening.

Too many things, actually. The mare, the one you pegged first off as a potential threat, moves in a way that would remind you of a snake if you'd seen snakes. It would remind you of a storm if you knew to fear storms. The words she says aren't mean, exactly, but something in her voice makes them mean. All over, your body stiffens as if it leans into a gale, and you're staring at her — you can't stop staring. Frowning. Waiting for your father to tell her to shut up, to never talk to him again like that, because it's stupid, it's disrespectful — and Vesper hates it, too. You hear the disquiet in her voice, her brave piping voice, because she speaks up before you as instinct roils around reason in your brain, trying to puzzle out what this even is (you were making a friend; you were having fun).

You move up as Vesper moves down to you, one wing opening protectively as if to shield her, to pull her close to your side, and your young features are all smooth lines, all still and aggravated, and you want the moment to pass but you also want to do something, something with the thunder in your chest, the smell of potential in the air. "Who is she?" you say at last, and that's all you say. It's not quite coincidence that your words echo Iskra's, except the sentiment is harder in your voice, angrier, almost an accusation.

A part of you just wants to go back to the game, to the other foals, but you can't look away from the mare, from your father, until Mesec does something. Until the situation is over. You're too small, too young, to help in any significant way, and yet there's a part of you, half-grown and fractious, that sinks its teeth into the ghost of a word (fight) and refuses to let go.

VIRGA