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Kaos, no, rather the monster of bones takes residence in the young boy’s dreams. Sometimes he doesn’t make it out alive; sometimes he watches his body swing carelessly into the air – reliving the pointed helplessness from that particular event.
His left wing is too sore to travel for long periods of time. Saoirse isn’t sure why the other foals eagerly take leave of the Throat. Aren’t they afraid? Scared? That Koas would follow their every move, and snatch them – without a care to throw against the wind?
But they leave anyway. The Throat is a lonely place; and the drive to find some ample piece of acceptance is what brings the boy to the gathering. Between spurts of flying – gliding mostly – he pushes against the soreness that wracks his body. Squishing tears away, and mumbling protests underneath his breath.
Shaky limbs bring him to the Northern Steppe. He’s never been this far before. Saoirse skirts himself into the huddle of bodies; some he recognizes, others, merely faces that come and go within the Throat. Everyone is so different, he notes. But as he makes his way through the crowd, keeping his wings securely, protectively close, he cannot breach past the initial crowd. And finds himself standing beside a rather robust mare, appearing regal, commanding – gilded horns, fearsome markings.
He stands close to her, being careful not to touch her – just enough to keep him safe.
Saoirse cannot escape the yeti however. Eyes widening, ears flatten against his skull as he spots a very familiar, pale and sparkling colt. “Thèo! Be careful!” Is his wavering, thin voice.
And then he spots an egg about its horns. The boy gazes between the nest and the teeth, and the blood that stains so blatantly against its belly and mouth.
This wasn’t worth getting hurt over, was it?
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