Despite the fact that it was summer, and thus one of the mildest seasons in the Tundra, Tobiah was still surprised by the bite in the air. It was different from his birth, wherever that had been, and the few days following—the weather warm and welcoming and utterly perfect. If that is what you viewed as perfect. For Tobiah, it had been mostly empty. He had appreciated the sweet beauty of the land, the softness of it and the quiet, but even after a few days, he had begun to yearn for more. He had begun to dream.

His mother had been the same—soft, sweet, nervous—but his interest had been piqued more of the stories that she had told him of his father. A stallion that she, admittedly, did not know well, but who came from a kingdom where the land was beautiful and cruel and dangerous. He was King, she had told him, of a band of brothers where no mare was allowed to join the ranks. The Tundra. The brotherhood.

Her details had been vague, shallow, and still they had been enough. Enough to cause the young colt, even in his severe youth, to wait for her to sleep before leaving. Enough for him to gather his wits and point his path in the direction of the Tundra. There had been a brief flickering of fear in his heart—enough to cause him to pause, at least—his pale blue-grey eyes resting on the sleeping form of his mother. 

But, ultimately, he had known what he needed to do.

For in all of her stories, his mother had also told him of the faeries of Beqanna and the warning that they had given her regarding her newborn son. He would grow up strong, tall, handsome. He was gifted with his father’s invisibility, something he had yet to master, and wings, although the one on the right would forever be smaller and thus weaker, and immortality—the gift of eternal life. That is, until he fell in love.

Tobiah had not understood at first, how such a gift came with such limitations. He did not understand why his right wing curled more at his side and why he felt distinctly off-balance whenever he unfurled them. He certainly did not understand why his own emotional attachment could strip him of his immortality. But what he had known was that when his mother had told him of the Tundra, the place where no mares could roam and where he father reigned as King, he had known that it was his only chance to hold onto his gifts.

So although he paused, and his expression had fallen for a second, he had ultimately stiffened his lip, just nodding at her in his form of goodbye before turning toward the Tundra and what waited for him there. Although there were parts of him that had wanted to curl into her side, let her continue to coddle him, he knew that his only true chance of survival was to shut that part of him off completely. 

He was not gifted the luxury of love in his life. It was better to acclimate himself to that fact now.

As he makes his way toward the Tundra, he fortifies the promise he made to himself in his heart. When he reaches the border, he is pleased to know that he does not even miss his mother. Instead, he just lifts his roman nose to the wind and lets loose a call, surprisingly throaty. And then he waits for what is to come.

There is something about the barren land that calls to Tobiah; something that feels right. Standing here now, cool wind washing over him, he recognizes it as the feeling of homecoming. Perhaps he would not live here forever—after all, his forever had the potential to be a very long time—but he would always think of his first time standing on the border with fondness. His pale eyes traced the border of the Tundra, taking in the stark, harsh beauty and the relative quiet, and he simply nodded. Yes. This would do.

It was not until the stallion landed in front of him that his gaze jerked away. He had no way of knowing that this was his father—his mother had told him broad descriptions but no physical details—so he does not say anything at first, not immediately answering the demand. It wasn’t that he was petulant (although it could be argued that he was stubborn); it was simply that Tobiah liked to process things in his own time. If he was going to give his name, it would be because he decided that he wanted to, not simply because he was asked to relinquish it. In time, he would learn just how hard headed he could become.

Finally, after several moments have passed, he shrugs. “Tobiah.” The goodness of God, although his mother had not known the meaning behind the name when she had whispered it to him. He did not often feel like his life reflected such ideals—his god gave and took away in equal measures—but he liked his name all the same. It was simple, strong, and rooted in history. “What is your name?” he echoes back. It was only fair that he be given the same courtesy that was demanded of him, even if this was not yet his home.