Amongst the rubble and regrowth of Tephra, Midnight learns. He digs his talons into the mostly blackened soil, diving deep enough to unearth rich and healthy dirt beneath. The needle-sharp grips wrap around the earth and tug, ripping out ash and dust and roots that survived the fire. He lifts his prize to just below his chest and takes a sniff, emerald eyes wide as they study thin white strips of undergrowth. The colt is gentle when he returns the soil to the ground, even patting it flat so that it is almost as if there never was a hole.
Midnight sighs to himself, somber eyes now trained faithfully upon what vines bravely sprout from the scorched floor. For a moment, he experiences kinship: he, too, has been burned, and at such a young age. Though, for now, it is just a sinking feeling in his chest he does not yet understand.
When Larke approaches, the black and white boy is still transfixed with the vines; though, one cannot call him “transfixed” so much as “zoned out.” His green eyes have a thin film of distance over them, telling any onlooker that he is no where near their shared physical universe; still, he shivers to life when she offers hello, lost eyes finding that same guarded acceptance he felt when he first met Starsin.
What is your name?
Midnight laughs, a genuine and boyish noise. No one has ever asked him his name (he has always offered it, as Starlust proved he must). Normally, he is up to enough mischief to hide whatever strange pain he might be feeling, which leaves him quick enough on his feet to offer himself before he can be rejected.
Now, he is caught entirely off guard.
“My name is Midnight.” The blunt way he speaks is softened by his age. “I like your flowers. Is your name Flower?”
now I wake up in the mornings and all the kindness is drained out of me
i spend hours just wincing and trying to regain some sense of peace
@[larke]