The warmth of summer finds him like a moth finds a flame, heating the length of his backside and sending his tail into steady swaying patterns to ward off insects.

Even now, as the seasons change, shape the world and relentlessly hover above him—Caster marks a path to the river. A tepid breeze at his back brings mild relief, and he stops to sigh in gratitude before pressing his course any further. At least the air is moving around him; at least his night had not been filled with sleep terrors, nor endless trails that led to shadowed profiles of faceless bodies.

A length of tall grass brushes against his patchwork side, trailing its fine fingers along the pattern of dark meets light. He’s roamed these U-shaped lands once or twice before, noting the meadows, the thin copse of wood, and even still he finds something new or unusual about each visit. With a heavy breath, he scents the air and finds a thread of a memory misplaced—strings frayed and scuffed like worn fiber.

Still, there was a pressure building, or perhaps it was the steady rise of the river’s chanting rapids. Their promise of cool respite, a cleansing drink to wash away the weight that began to drag him down even as his thoughts had, for a moment, become placid in the longing heat. Dark hooves stumbled along stones as he reached the edge of a riverbank, lost in his contemplations so deeply that the pass found him long before he expected—swaying as he regained his footing and steadied his stance.

It occurs to him that he might do a better job at watching his step, allowing the cooler breeze of the riverfront to clear his head, and with it, the plague of possibility that forever lingered along the fringe of his thoughts.

“Who’s there?” he calls, blackened ears tugged forward, swiveling to the side earnestly before standing at attention once again. Such a novel, imperfect way his ears moved, following a distinct disturbance that fell quite differently than the rhythm of the water thrashing against the riverbed. 

Caster searched for shadows, but he hoped, prayed for another living creature.

If shadows could bite, his suffering may never cease, the anticipation of the unknown, the dark, might send him over the edge. For now, there is little in the way of menace, though his body tenses up at the unexpected all the same.

Cas braced, for danger, for impact, and yet the only creature that skittered into his company was a youngling, head carried low. For all its worth, the foal is a curious sort, blue like a river, green like the foliage above which they both stood. Even more was the collective of greenery that scattered itself within his hair, and the pattern of swirls that adorned the child’s leg—though not misplaced, because this world knew delightful color, intricate markings, wondrous power. It was enough to turn his fear into curiosity, and maybe, just maybe it was enough to lull the hesitation of what might leave.

My name is Limb’, the boy shares, finding a voice among the green, casting an aura of impeccable starlight, and what snares the paint’s attention foremost is the gleam of a horn.

Small, this boy was still so young. Had he no mother?

Each apology hits with a heavy blow, cracking the solid wall of his body, leeching every slice of certainty that his ribs could ever keep his heart from harm. They failed him, many times over, and so his warm nature cools, though it does not dissipate from this meeting.

“You’re alone?” Caster worries, not unkindly, but the heavy burden of asking a foal the very question he had placed on himself.

“We are alike in that way,” a confession from unstained lips, blinking back his surprise as his nose is bumped, velvet against velvet, warm like a memory unfolded.

Quiet takes him, as it is oft to do, remembrance bubbling over of his mother and her splashed mouth. The touch was as soft, as gentle and as well-meaning then—as it is now.

“My name is Caster,” he whuffs, releasing a breath of air in greeting, in recognition of their freshly established acquaintance.

The word brother snares his attention enough to draw a reaction, physically responding to the sound like a fly had pricked his skin. It’s slight, barely a whisper of movement and yet if one were looking, they would take note of the reaction like a crash of thunder along a stormy sky.

Cas has been a brother before, Cas may be a brother still, but all that was left now was uncertainty. All that was left now was shame, rearing its faceless head among the shadows.

Shadows threaten him, each fold of his memory their home, curling along the afterthoughts, glaring against the fragments.

I suppose I am, and Caster can not fault him for that realization. They shared a sentiment of solitude, they forged a path, though oftentimes unknowing—against the reality of loneliness. The youngling was a curious creature, tender in age, and it would seem in his connections too. Innocence spilling from him with each kindly word, sweetling sentiments along his ears and he flicked to hear them carefully. Tilting his head as the gentle touch of a nose pressed to his skin, it fidgeted a response, twitching in ripples along the length of his frame with a quiet humor.

“Oh, yes,” his response is suddenly tinted with confusion, a moment passes to consider a quizzical quip, but his better judgment prevails. This boy—he was just a boy, and like most children, must assuredly seek a form of play to pass his time.

”I’m afraid they are mostly decorative.”

Fly? Now that would be something to see. His mother was a flier, and he supposed that this youngling must think that he’d like a set of his own. Once, a long time ago, he would dare say that this game of pretend found its place among his afternoons. His brother had wings, though much like this game, they didn't fly him much of anywhere—and never for long. Oh, how he had envied them, but that was before he grew to learn that a great many things are just as worthwhile.

A great many things hold value, even if he couldn’t always see them.

“I suppose I do like seeds,” he’s decided, letting his eyes wander, curious to know just which he might have to endure. “And do you think it would be okay,” he tiptoed to his purpose, “that I still had a bit of grass too? I would hate to impose.”

Yes, that would tread lightly, even if he were a bird.

He was still a lot of horse.