He is still covered in afterbirth when she lays him there at the foot of Khaos’ shrine. The moon gleams across his body as he drifts to sleep. She will not come back for him, he knows somehow, but he is unconcerned. He does not hunger as other foals do; not for mother’s milk, not for warmth. Of all the foals that Rea has birthed and left, Knock is perhaps most suited for survival. Iron does not need like others do.
He sleeps for a time, silent and hidden within long salt grasses. His body pulls iron from the ground, and even from Khaos himself, deepening the jagged wounds left by Quark. When he wakes, eyes blinking up at an old remnant of an iron stallion, Knock is nearly full grown, fed by the metal of his grandsire.
He rises, wings groaning to life as he spreads them, testing their length before settling them at his sides. He eyes Khaos’ shell, snorting as he circles the old beast. For a moment he is unsure of what to do. There is a hunger in him he cannot explain - a hunger for more than what he has already taken.
“Who are you?” he asks the old stallion, though he knows he cannot answer. There is no life left in him.
He sleeps for a time, silent and hidden within long salt grasses. His body pulls iron from the ground, and even from Khaos himself, deepening the jagged wounds left by Quark. When he wakes, eyes blinking up at an old remnant of an iron stallion, Knock is nearly full grown, fed by the metal of his grandsire.
He rises, wings groaning to life as he spreads them, testing their length before settling them at his sides. He eyes Khaos’ shell, snorting as he circles the old beast. For a moment he is unsure of what to do. There is a hunger in him he cannot explain - a hunger for more than what he has already taken.
“Who are you?” he asks the old stallion, though he knows he cannot answer. There is no life left in him.