The young one watched his other-father and his brother depart, himself half-asleep. It was lesson time, then. Another might have been jealous of Pride and Azizos' bond, or even curious, but Arsu was content. They were all family, and in truth, energy magic held no interest for him. He was happy to linger in the shadowed magic, listening to the quiet whisper of the leaves and Mercurius' stories. The lion's rumbling voice was almost lulling, and he often found his mind drifting off into fantastic worlds with his words. He held many vivid memories, now, of glades dark in the dim blue of night, of dew glistening crystalline at the tips of leaves, of the mysterious magic inherent in it all. This was what captured his imagination, and it was what kept him happily, even eagerly, learning from Mercurius--and not at all wishing to be anywhere else.

He stood, absently shaking a few leaves free of his shining white coat.

"Okay," he answered, softly. He was mild, gentle, but there was excitement in him. Others might have missed it, but it was there--clear to Mercurius, no doubt--a glint in his eye, enthusiastic energy in his step.

He wanted to ask which story would be told tonight, but he knew his father would begin when it was time. Instead, his mind wandering over all the possibilities (Will it be another place with strange colors I've never seen? Will it have ice and snow, or walls of fire, or trees as tall as the caves? Will it be a world in miniature? Will it be about creatures whose skin is scaled and spotted gold, or maybe great white rabbits like Mischief?) His mind was already scattered, his gaze distant but eyes wide with possibility, as he followed Mercurius to their lesson.

Arsu followed his father along the worn path, and as they walked, he listened. But his gaze was elsewhere, and one might be forgiven for thinking he wasn't paying attention: silver-blue eyes regarded the world around him, wide, as his head turned from side to side. One might think, too, that it was the young lion-stag's first excursion out, given his apparent sense of wonder.

He had yet to gain the stately grace of either of his parents--either the regal precision of Pride's steps, nor the silky, subtle power of Mercurius' gentle movements. But his step was soft, in that he walked without a sound, each hoof carefully placed. It was almost as if he were afraid to harm the dirt, or the ferns. His gaze took in the dew where it glistened on the foliage. It followed the mist where it drifted low in a hollow that they passed. He paused (and had to hurry after Mercurius to catch up) to watch a bat that hung in a distant tree canopy, chewing on a fruit.

But Arsu was listening. He held the same sense of wonder toward all of his father's tales as he did to the world around him, and as they came to the Monarch's base, he paused as if in total awe, and spoke.

"The All-Mother? --It's a mother, then?" he asked, and even his voice was a soft middle-ground between child and adult, between male and female--vague, quavering. "Where did those Gembound go?" he added, curiously.

He came up alongside Mercurius, glancing to him. Though his own frame was almost as large as the lion's, now, his bulk was nowhere near, and his body was not formed for sitting back on his haunches as the feline's was. Instead he curled down, after a moment of taking in the sights around him, and lay in the grass like a deer.

Some might be insulted to have their stories interrupted--indeed, Arsu had every chance of unintentionally upsetting a storyteller later in life--but Mercurius had always been easy-going. He seemed to welcome questions, and his gentle, accepting nature encouraged involvement in the tales.

Then, his single, gentle request--one Mercurius was undoubtedly intending to grant, regardless: "Tell me of the light?"

Arsu's head swivelled, and he watched the Monarch, rapt, as his father spoke.

Some of the story entranced him--and it showed; his gaze lingered unblinking on the vast being, his ears swept forward as he watched it. Yet at times, the spell seemed broken, and he looked to Mercurius with a faintly furrowed brow--seeming more troubled, by something (if only faintly) than inspired.

When his father nudged him, rather than attempt his magic right away, he spoke. His voice was not the soft, rapt one that he usually held, but betrayed instead a thread of worry.

"That one--is that one true? It isn't true, is it?" He never could tell, from either of his fathers' stories, how much truth they held. But he had the impression that some were more true than others, and something about this one bothered him. He didn't like the idea that the creator of all was stood here, silent to its creations, and lightless. He did not like, either, the idea that her creations had abandoned her--nor that the lights themselves might be aware, somehow. It seemed to make the world more uncertain, and less beautiful than it had been a few short minutes ago.

He liked the idea of such sacrifice--it made for a good story. But the rest... He didn't want the world to be that way. Something about it struck him as wrong.

But Arsu was dutiful, at least, and bowed his head after a moment to concentrate, despite his troubled heart.

A shimmer flared around him, at first only a faint white sheen--not golden, like the orb-lights, but a colorless, cold white. It was beautiful, in its own way: ethereal and pale. Pure.

He looked over his own flank and back, surprised, and then back at Mercurius. "...We are part mushroom?" he asked, in a half-worried, half-awed, small voice.

Arsu listened, uncertainly. He took in every word that his father said, considering it carefully, turning it over in his mind before even trying to make a judgement on it. That was the problem with being so young: he had so little context. It took him awhile, even, to figure out why he felt... upset, by the story.

At last he spoke, looking away again, out into the wet, cool jungle.

"...There's something about... our 'creator' being--here, visible. Mortal. That would bother me, I think. Ahh... I figured we came from some... mystical, powerful place. Maybe it's that... I don't know where we go when we die. No one does, no one I've asked? And I don't think I'd like it if we just became a mushroom," he added, brow furrowed as he stared up at it.

His light, gradually, faded, and he kept on speaking. "I'd like it better if we came from the light, or the wind, or mist. From darkness or from some kind of other world we can't even see. Not something... plain and visible that can't help us, after." His words didn't quite express what he wanted, and his ears flattened back in sad frustration, head lowering. He wasn't the most articulate of Gembound--he'd always been raptly quiet, listening, instead of speaking. While that still had time to change, at the moment, it was not doing him any favors.

After a beat he realized he'd let his light dim, and he focused on bringing it back, brow still furrowed. His heart was not at all in it, yet the light answered nonetheless, a faint and steady pure, cold white.

He looked up to Mercurius, at least a little reassured by this--by the fact that the magicka, at least, seemed a solid companion.

"So-... does everyone have light?" he asked Mercurius, curiously.

Arsu kept watching the Monarch uncertainly--and most of Mercurius' words simply seemed to make him more troubled, his expression growing more and more clouded and dark. At last he looked to his father.

"When you said you don't know if it's true--that you do not truly know the origins of things--where did you hear this tale?" There seemed to be a kind of urgency behind the words, as if he very much wanted to hear a particular answer, though the young hybrid didn't say which answer he sought.

Even the words of others having light, and fire, and water--something about this seemed, too, to trouble Arsu. He shook himself, once, as if trying to shake away a disturbing, errant thought.

It was only at the mention of nurturing plants that he seemed to calm, somewhat, only a little of the tenseness leaving his frame. He leaned his head down, nudging the dirt.

"I like that better," he murmured, pale eyes lingering on the soil. A few stray seeds began to sprout, coaxed upward by the young hybrid's natural magic--breaking through the surface, extending upward, reaching for the dim light overhead.

Arsu closed his eyes and pressed his nose very lightly against the nearest green stem, as if to comfort or reassure himself.