Andarin: The Mountains: aw. snowfight? --

Loki, for that was the colt’s name, like most young things, had not an ounce of sense in his mind. He had, in fact, a lot other things in his mind -- joy, for instance, and other delectable emotions such as a healthy dose of puzzlement -- but sense was scarce; which was why, perhaps, he felt so comfortable strewn over the larger, elder filly like a somewhat horse-shaped shawl.

The air made him shiver not entirely unpleasantly; like most young things, he has learned to associate certain sensations with good things (a must, if you’re alive) and wind, while it made him shiver, also reminded him of being bundled snugly between warm bodies: one black as space, another red like cinnamon.

The concept of a nuclear family was pretty alien to him, you see. Air was Icarus and safety and his mother’s love unspooling like a river.

Thus did Loki learn to love what caused him pain.

“Bonita!” he laughs, utterly unable to discern why she didn’t understand him, though he knew she didn’t. Being as new he was, however, he didn’t mind it in the least. “Bonita, wind!”

By which he meant to say he liked her wind oh-so-very-much.

Much as he bent his will and started weaving a snowball out of nowhere, covertly.

“Mine, yes,” said Wyvern. “And you’re too young to get one like him. When you are bigger, maybe.”

And for one horrible moment he thought of Hesper and Loki and procreation in the same context and that particular line of thought died a quiet, silent death before it could flourish.

“Anyway, your mother,” he hummed and his mind wandered; and things like dreams uncoiled, blended with memories and --

No.

Don’t think of it.

“She’ll be fine, soon,” he sighed and watched as his son levitated the aforementioned snowball and let it spin lazily over the filly’s head…

… plop, said the snow.

wyvern ; loki
a boy and his father;