Had he known of the tendencies of horses in Beqanna, perhaps he might have worn something other than a coyote.
The spring wind feels good in his thick coat, and he stretches when he emerges into the sunlight of the meadow. By the end of the stretch he has transformed into a horse, better able to take advantage of the waving crop of fresh grasses that await him. He is ravenously hungry, though his journey from the Mountain had not been overlong. It feels as though he’s not eaten in days. In truth it has been decades, the magic of the fairies holding him tight as Beqanna spun around him.
He grazes peacefully, unaware that his home is gone and the world around him entirely new. Idiro means to eat and then return to Heaven’s Gates. His siblings will be waking soon, he thinks, and though he is quite sure that at four he is much too old for babysitting duty, he’d still managed to get himself roped into it for the day. Though he wretches at the thought, he sincely hopes his parents really do spend the day visiting grandfather Errant in the Tundra and don’t get distracted by making another sibling this fall.
Fall? A frown starts to grow on his face. This is spring grass he’s eating, not fall. The trees in the forest behind him are green with new growth, not golden like they had been last night. A shiver runs down his spine. How long had he been asleep?!