Vadar had never asked to be given life. Looking back years from now, he supposes the only thing he’ll be grateful for in this moment is that Wound (innocent and broken, exactly her namesake) gives him this most precious of gifts. She pays a price for her kindness, though; what slips from the battered recesses of her body will always be a painful reminder of just who put him there in the first place.
“Vadar” is the first sound he hears, though he’ll forget that fact soon enough. It means “father”, and just like Modicum he’s dipped in black. Were it not for the silvery-white tint of his hair (there is enough of Wound in him, enough gentleness) the colt would certainly be a mimic. He even seems marked in some way, with patches of white over each blinking eye and a grim, sort-of-humorish bleaching around his lips. Poor thing.
Mother Wound jerks away, leaving a cold emptiness and sudden fear behind her.
The silver bay mare’s son bleats quietly in protest, not yet understanding that fear will follow him from here on out. Until his mother is free they’ll both wake up to it, fall asleep to it, even anticipate it. He doesn’t know that he’s a mistake, not yet - and so he cries for her again in the dinge of their makeshift pen, only knowing Wound and the knowledge that he depends on her.
VADAR
@[wound]