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"Do I have to?" the colt protests, looking to his mother with youthful hope and obstinacy. It's growing late; the blistering heat of midday has finally faded, washing the land in a calm coolness. It's mild, and as far as he's concerned, it couldn't be more perfect a time for play, adventure, and discovery.

"Yes, dear," she disagrees, softly. The mare has a slim, kind face, and gentle eyes that shine with pride and adoration when she smiles at him.

Sirian frowns at her, his features full of disappointment, but says nothing. The foal only steals a glance over his shoulder, at the distant, rolling hills, and the billowing clouds. They've turned orange with sunset, bathing the lands in the day's afterglow; he lets his eyes trace over them and along the horizon, across the rugged mountain slopes beyond it. His dad is out there, somewhere, he thinks to himself, doing whatever it is he does when he insists he's never really gone. It's a hard thing, growing up with a father as dutiful - and as absent - as his, but he's quite strong for a colt so terribly young, and has a remarkable sense of understanding.

"Night," he says at last, glancing back to her as he steps toward his thicket home.

"Dream sweet. I love you." She gives her son an affectionate nuzzle, lips at the fluff of mane behind his ear, and nudges him off to bed.

"I love you too."

Trudging toward the underbrush, the colt noses through a large, thick-looking bush, and tucks himself into its alcove inside. There's a hollow in its dusty floor, where he curls and folds his limbs beneath himself, pulling his wings close. A body's habits aren't easily broken; tiredness seems to claim him once he's settled in. He gives a great, wide yawn, and lays down his head to close his eyes.

The next thing he remembers is something he thought was a fitful dream. He ignores it at first, twitching in his sleep, but doesn't stir until a sound causes his eyes to dart open. The foal's head shoots up, narrowly missing a branch, and his tender ears strain with attentiveness. He could have sworn he heard someone shout... He blinks, blearily, and frowns in bemusement.

Someone lets out a pained yell; his ears pin instinctively. "Mother?" he calls, something close to panic taking hold on him.

Nothing answers him. He waits, and waits more. Still, silence is his only response.

Something is terribly wrong; he can feel it, deep and unsettling to his very core.

Driven by an inexplicable sense of instinctive urgency, the foal scrambles from his nighttime hideaway. Outside, he tips his small nose to the wind, scenting it as an equine alarmed often will. Sirian is too young to understand the thick, metallic smell causing the pit in his stomach, but he does know his mother, and takes off in a jovially clumsy gallop when he thinks he's finally found her.

Sirian has never run so hard in his life. He is scrambling, moving as fast as his spindly legs will possibly carry him, like his very life depends on it, even though he hasn't yet come to understand why.

He will, soon... Far too soon.

The colt breaks into a clearing. Moonlight spills across it, illuminating the forest floor, and the equine figures within it; including a pale, once opalescent mare. His mother - he's found her! - but the scene he finds with her stops him abruptly in his tracks.

His small, translucent wings flare as he skids to a halt, hooves firmly planted, steadying his balance. "Mother?" he ventures, quietly, his bright eyes going wider than he'd care to realize... But he doesn't expect a response. Not really, anyway. His youthful hopefulness would like to insist he does, but dread has overtaken him. The unfortunate pit in his gut has grown so strong, no measure of hope could overpower his instincts.

He stares at the battered mare for what seems like a very long while, entranced and horrified and disgusted and immeasurably sad all at once. And alone. Suddenly, he feels very, very alone, and very small in a very big, threatening world. His wings fold, tucking close to his sides, mirroring his shift from alarmed, but hopeful, to singularly distraught.

For the first time, he looks to the dark stallion, his brows furrowing as deep melancholy takes hold of his expression. "Why?" he starts, sounding soft, tentative, and terribly lost. It's a question more for himself than it is for the blood-stained shadow before him. "How could you?"

How could he, a creature born of the heavens - Sirian recognizes one of his own - strike down and consume one of his kin? Despite his young age, he does understand some must die so others may survive, but this... This is wrong! The raven stallion can't take Mother from him. He just can't.

The colt blinks hard, fighting against the tears he can feel striving for freedom. He can't cry now; not in front of this horrible stranger. Some part of him wants to run away... To put as much space between them as his little legs will possibly let him. Should he, though? He doesn't know what to do... He doesn't know what his father would want from him, and now, he has no one else to ask... Not even his mother, who had always been there for him.

He can feel his gaze flit to her corpse, involuntarily. Seeing her - it - again, out of more than the corner of his eye, shatters the barriers he had built inside himself. He throws away the semblance of logic he'd been attempting, abandoning it for his confused, panicked sadness.

Unsure of himself, and at a loss as to what he should do, he does the only thing he can - or can't - think of: he closes the distance between them, ignoring the gluttonous angeni standing over her. Folding his limbs, the colt buries himself beside her head, crossing his neck over hers. The smell of blood is so strong here, it churns his stomach, but he doesn't care. His tears are flowing freely; he clamps his eyes shut against them, ignoring everything else. If the stranger will take him too... Let him. Right now, Sirian wants only to be with her.

The colt's ears pin as laughter breaks out above him; he doesn't want to hear it. Sirian doesn't want to be reminded of the stallion's presence. Especially not of his amusement. It's wrong! There is no humor in this. It isn't just 'not funny'; it's both tragic and cruel, and his young heart is breaking for it. It isn't fair. He's not yet ready to see her go... no more than he's ready to face the world alone.

Words aren't so easily ignored, though. He can't shut them out. Can't pretend they're just not there. They're very real, and very persistent, pressing through every ounce of will he has to not hear them. They make him want to bury his head in her mane, at first... but as they continue, he can't. Something inside the colt breaks. He jumps to his hooves, eyes snapping open, still filled with tears, and stands protectively over her. Looking as intimidating as his small form possibly can, his head lowers, expression accusing, and his ethereal wings flare threateningly.

"Eat something else!" he insists, unthinkingly, as sternly as his juvenile voice will allow. No, he realizes it won't bring her back. Nothing will, but... It seems right, somehow, and bolsters his courage, even though he's still not sure what else to do.

There's nothing he can do. Nothing... He realizes it, finally, soaking through to his very core. He can't see her again; not ever. Reality draws a choked sniffle from him; he swallows hard, trying to look and feel more composed than he really is.

It isn't fair.

It's not his fault she'd tried so hard to hide this monster from him... To hide him from this monster. He was never supposed to hear her. She never intended him to know she'd cried - especially not that she'd stayed silent for him; wordless til' the very end. Her dear, beloved child... She didn't want him to know.

The colt's sharp expression wilts at the implication, only just stopping short of tears. "I..." he starts, pausing uncertainly, his ears folded as his wings pull close to his sides. He... He had been sleeping, on the fringes of a nightmare, tucked away in the safe hold she'd chosen especially for him. In her final moments, when she had no one else in the wold but him... he had been sleeping. Time stops, and Sirian can feel his heart catch in his throat, heavy with guilt.

Moments pass. Long, painful moments, so laden with sadness they feel like seasons to him.

Finally, he chokes a sniffle, and when he looks up again, it's with renewed - foolish - courage in his eyes. "Just go away," he tells the stranger, with all the confidence he can muster.

He's in no humor for threats; Sirian ignores his laughter, meeting the inference with juvenile obstinacy, his expression not unlike the stubborn frown he'd shown his mother. The stallion is right, though - he hasn't yet come to realize it, but he can't afford to die here; he can't let her sacrifice have been for naught. She wants him to grow. To turn strong, wise, and noble. To be the protector she had raised him as, and a creature his father can take pride in.

But right now, he hardly feels it. He's small, weak, and ignorant. A coward. The courage he'd bolstered, and brandish against this intruder is leaving him, and despite his struggles, he's failing to find it. The colt is made aware of himself, and the powerless, pitiful creature he really is. His expression falls, and it's all he can do to keep his head high, as his father taught him; never mind the dampness in his eyes.

He doesn't have it in himself to say something. It doesn't matter any more. Bleakly, wordlessly, Sirian watches the stallion's departure, his focus never leaving the bloody form, until it fades from sight entirely.

When it does, he feels his fragile thread of control leave with it. His dammed emotions crash down around him, heavy and solemn; far too grievous for his young heart to bear. The colt collapses, burying himself against his mother's broken corpse, tears streaking his cheeks. Heedless of the elder's warning, and, perhaps, his instinct's better sense, hours pass with him curled against what's left of her, until he has neither the strength, nor the will to sob, and his quiet cries fade to silence... And, eventually, fitful sleep.

It comes as no surprise Sirian's sleep is restless, riddled with monsters and hurt and nightmares no child his age should dream. He stirs countless times, always seeming on the verge of waking, and always finding shelter against his lifeless mother. It cycles for hours, until his fatigue in sleeping almost mirrors his exhaustion in waking, and even his subconsciousness can't bear it any more. Jolting awake, the colt's head shoots upward, his ears flicking back.

He feels stiff, blood smudged, crusted, and clinging to his fur, and its stench engulfs him once he's alert enough to realize it. For a moment, his melancholy expression twists in a discomforted grimace. And then he notices he has company.

Sirian takes an uncertain step back, away from the stranger, and away from the broken corpse, his features openly wary and distrusting. He could run; get away, survive... For a moment, the idea commands his thoughts. But he remembers himself. He doesn't want to run.

The colt's ethereal wings lift, all four stretching wide, almost doubling his apparent, still-small size. "What do you want?" he ventures, accusingly. It's not like him; he's a kind, gentle soul, not at all like the coarseness he's showing now, but he can't seem to help himself. He's hurting, still obvious in his grieving, young visage, even as he stands protectively over his butchered mother.

Too late.

Her words resound in him with tremulous force, shattering his fragile heart all over again. He'd been too late...

He's not so ignorant he doesn't know it wouldn't have mattered, even if he hadn't been, but still it upsets him. He resents his powerlessness; his helplessness. He hates his forceful deference to fate and purpose - even if she had taught him of it - if only because they took her from him. They should have left her. She should be here with him!... As more than this broken husk.

His guilt swells, so powerful he think he might burst. "It doesn't matter," Sirian tells her, darkly, heedless of her kind words. She can't hurt him more than he hurts already; no one can. It doesn't matter what she says, nor what she promises. She can't undo it either. "Just leave us alone." He glowers briefly, passing her a sullen, still-mistrustful glance; one so grievous, it's hardly befitting of his young features.

Some small, timid part of him realizes he doesn't know what he'll do, even if she does. He feels... empty now, like the sun may never come up again, and there's no tomorrow, if she's not there waiting with it. There are no adventures, no mysteries, and no discoveries waiting for him, biding time until they're found and experienced. No nothing. He's only his pitiful self, alone, and ultimately aimless, with nothing to tie him to reality but a nagging inkling he needs to stay alive, and a strong desire to stay and protect the only small thread of dignity he feels she has left. As though he's able. Really, he knows he lacks the strength and stature to do even that.

The colt's posture shrinks, his wingspan faltering and threatening to pull close before he manages to catch himself. Certainly, he's small, weak, and helpless, but... He's very proud of his parents, too. What, he wonders, would Father have him do? Uncertainty edges into his visage; he doesn't know.

His father's frequent, dutiful absences have afforded Sirian an odd sort of acceptance of them; he has a healthy respect for responsibility and obligation, and is happy to share his father with those more in need than he is. Unfortunately, now, he's the one in need, and he's feeling so lost and hopeless, he doesn't even realize it.

The colt knows only he wants to do right by him. Having him gone now, when Sirian feels he has no one else to turn to is a crushing weight on his already brittle emotions. He's beside himself with grief, unable to do anything but stand still as a statue and watch, wary in her silence. What does she want, if not to further degrade him or his mother? She surely couldn't have meant... No. Sirian shakes his head, trying to clear his thoughts. She had been lying. A front to lull him into security. He can't... He can't trust anyone. Not even her, who acts so very kind, and so very much like his fallen mother.

And then she moves. His ears pin as his muscles tense, aching to lunge forward, ready to try and stop her from... whatever it is she plans on doing. It never comes. She only shifts slowly, so he never once feels threatened, and is instead left observing with suspicious intensity.

"..." He thinks to open his maw for objection, but nothing comes. Sirian can't argue with that; not even with his erratic, illogical emotions. He wants very much to protect her, even in her death, and this stranger's done nothing more than abide by him. He relents, grudgingly, and watches in silence a moment longer, until the branch rests atop her, shielding her from both sight and nature.

A distrustful frown overtakes his features, pushing aside his sadness as he wrestles within himself; against his unnatural independence and his childish need to feel cherished and praised, as he knows his parents would do if he were doing the right thing... The right thing... Sirian knows there is no right. He can't win here. But ultimately, this is perhaps the closest he may come, even if it does come at the aid of a stranger.

The colt steps forward, over the corpse, his brows furrowing. There is a brief moment he eyes the angeni, wordlessly, almost daring her to move while he leaves her unattended. Then his wings fold against his sides, and he turns, averting his crystal-blue gaze to the canopy overhead. Most are far too tall for his small stature, but one... Sirian shifts to the edge of the clearing, beneath a particularly low-hanging branch, and rares up on his hind legs to clasp it between his teeth. It resists, bending and clinging stubbornly when he stands down again, even as he steps back and tugs against it. He frowns at it, giving it a persistent snort and twisting his head, making it quite clear he does not require help.

Finally, it snaps, granting him a few feet of twig laden with leafy foliage. The foal drags it across the clearing, where he pulls it over his mother, and lays it as gently as if he were weaving a wreathe of flowers.