The tunnel felt like death.

The stone was cold, a mist sitting stagnant and chill along the grey rock floor. It was dark, and empty, and the silence hung like a threat, the way it might in a sacred place, or a library.

Or a tomb.

Nestled in a crevice several feet off the ground, unsightly in the otherwise eerily monotonous stone, was a pustule of sorts.

An illness, to bring change.

This pustule was a sickly green-yellow, slick and smooth and slimy with condensation. It seemed almost to pulsate, now and again, as if the cave itself was infected. As if the tunnel were extruding its illness, ready to bleed pus down into its tunnels to be rid of what coiled within.

A plague, as a catalyst.

The creature within knew none of this, however: in fact, he knew nothing aside from a strange chant that had whispered through his mind once or twice.

Clotho. Lachesis. Atropos.

Within, the black foal shivered, his mind infected as was his body, the bacterial swarms around him taking him up as their host, their kingdom, their king.

Clotho. Lachesis. Atropos.

He began to wake. He felt his life spinning out before him, unravelled and measured, as if his time were being prepared and allotted, and he had but to wait the last few moments before emerging.

A blight, as an awakening.

Eyes opened within the rotten chrysalis, eyes that glowed pale and sickly with an empty gaze. All he could see before him was the color of rot, and even that was straining, pressed too-tight against him. Creaking. Cracking.

Clotho. Lachesis. Atropos.

The whispering chant passed through his mind one more time.

The chrysalis shattered.

What tumbled forth in a spray of cold pus was not a healthy, bright young foal, but a black and skeletal thing, ragged and bony, that fell to the ground below and then simply lay there, motionless. Did Origin Cave birth stillborns?

But no, this thing was alive, and he opened his eyes once more. Dim light lit the rock below him, and he blinked and stared for awhile as the rank-smelling goop dripped away. As he lay there and waited (and he did not quite know for what), more words drifted through his mind. He felt that they were streaming away, leaving him, as if his journey ahead--now measured out and ready for him--had no need for them bar distant memory.

And behold, a white horse... conquering... a red horse went out, to take peace...

The black foal was drying, his coat dull, and he slowly tried to stand. His legs shook and the strange sense of buzzing life within him--both feeding from him and supporting him--gave him an odd hope. It was as if there was something other with him. As if he would never truly be alone.

He stumbled, fell, and lay there panting.

...and behold, a black horse; and he who sat on it had a pair of scales in his hand...

The foal struggled up again, discolored tongue hanging from his mouth, the lamplike eyes blinking brightly.

...and behold, an ashen horse; and he who sat on it had the name Death; and Hell was following with him...

The foal heard the word whispered. Ashen. Ashen. Pallid. Khloros. He did not know the meaning of the words, nor the meaning of this, but he heard it in his mind and he took it, took it for his own.

He was standing, now.

He was standing in the tunnel where nothing was meant to stand; breathing in the air that none were meant to breathe. He was a thing that was not meant to be, and yet here he was: a living thing that carried death with him always. A thing that was ever ill, and was a bringer of sickness, yet did not fail and die.

But Khloros knew none of this. He knew only that he was cold, that walking was very hard. That the rock beneath his little hooves was too smooth, and that he was still wet, and shivering. He knew that his eyes gave off light, and he knew that he was alone.

He was alone, and it was dark, and it was cold. Some part of him took comfort in the blackness, a blackness he had always known and that enveloped him like a blanket--but some part of him screamed inside, filled with terror at the yawning mouth of the cave tunnel all around, and the wretched sense that this place should be empty. The foal looked around with his spectral gaze, legs trembling as he struggled to remain standing.

I am... I am sickness. But is sickness... meant to be afraid?

________________

"Aaaand I'm lost," Booker exclaimed with a sigh, having wandered through one too many cracks in the cave walls and ending up far beyond where he'd promised Baratheon he'd wait. "There is no way I'm still in Polaris." Grumbling under his breath in irritation, the numbat hopped over small stones and wound around larger spires. Finally, he came to something that looked promising - an opening, perhaps a tunnel? Trotting forward eagerly, the tiny numbat shivered at the blast of cold air that spewed forth, slowing his pace as the chill crept under his thin fur.

Puffing up his fur and shivering, whiskers bobbing as he moved, Booker went deeper into the tunnel, remembering Baratheon's adventurous spirit. Maybe if I'm a bit more like Bara, I could fly and stuff, too, he thought, puffing up even more with false bravado and settling back into a brisk scurry. His tail twitched behind him, nose sniffing at the air. Smells like mushrooms! Indeed, the air had filled with the musty stench of rot and decay, the kind of smell that only someone who, indeed, adored those fungal spores that grew in such places, could enjoy.

As the juvenile Gembound rounded one of Tunnel K's corners, he froze, eye widening at the sight. Oh dear. Though his vision was murky at best, Booker could still make out the outline of an emaciated animal, eyes practically glowing in the darkness. Must be a trick of the light, he thought, creeping a bit closer. As he did, the stench grew thicker, and he trembled, worried now. An infected wound, perhaps? He'd grown a bit more empathetic after traveling so often with Baratheon and caring for the gigantic dragon, and so instead of fleeing to safety, Booker trotted forward, raising his head up to peer at the beast. "Are you alright?" The creature's legs were trembling from this close, and he took a cautious step backwards, not wanting to be crushed if they gaze out entirely.

"Do you need help?"

Khloros heard a skitter, and then a voice, and it pierced slowly through the languid daze of his dreamlike thoughts.

He turned and blinked, the lights of his eyes flickering in and out of existence as eyelids swept down and retreated. His own thoughts shifted, as he stared, observing the stranger, this tiny creature with its bright voice and healthy coat.

Help? Do I need help?

Words shifted and tumbled in his head. He wasn't sure how to reply, but he found his staggering legs twitching and moving, found himself stumbling forward clumsily to try and nudge the numbat over, seeking mother's milk that wasn't there.

"Help," he croaked at last, pausing to think, head low to the ground. This close it was apparent that the horse was very ill, or at least that he was brimming with disease; patches of thin fur on his coat seemed to reveal spongy green-yellow flesh beneath, soggy with illness. The rest of his hair was dull black, matte, not glossy or healthy like the numbat's.

He raised spectral glowing eyes to the creature before him again, slightly tilting his head, crumbling to the rock with a folding of tired knees. "Don't know. Scared. Lost. Hungry." His voice was hoarse and grating, even at a youthful high pitch, and he looked pleadingly at Booker.

"Khloros," he whinnied mournfully. "Lost."

________________

Booker smiled brightly when the stranger turned towards his voice, taking it as a good sign. His smile dimmed a bit when it shambled towards him, and he squeaked in shock when the beast tipped him onto his back with a nudge of his snout. Thoroughly turtled, he wiggled in place, chittering in distress. Book froze at the sound of the stranger's voice, and he tilted his head a bit, frowning. For such a young, frail thing, it's voice was raspy and deep. A side effect? From this close, Booker could see the extent of the Gembound's injuries, and he winced in sympathy. Patches of skin were bloated and yellow with puss and infection, the rest of it's coat dull and worn. Whatever had happened to it, it was lucky to walk, much less talk.

Calming down a bit, breathing settling once more, the numbat perked up, meeting it's - no, Khloros' glowing eyes. After all, as big as he was compared to Booker, he was obviously injured and, from what he said, lost. The big black Gembound reminded him of himself, a bit, and he silently thanked his lucky stars that he'd been found by Baratheon and Magdalena when he'd hatched. "Well you don't have to be scared! Ya got me with ya," he offered with a grin, still trapped on his back. "As for the lost part, well, Book-er can't help much, 'cause I'm lost too." The numbat twitched his whiskers in thought, lifting a paw to wash at them. What a giant-black-spindly-thing ate, he wasn't sure, but his first thought was, per usual... "Mushrooms! Lemme try something," he said, closing his good eye to focus.

post roll:
With a soft pop, several tiny mushrooms sprouted from the ground, their growth helping to tip the numbat right-side-up again. Shaking off the chill from the hard rock ground, he grinned proudly, urging the fungi higher with a clap of his hands. "There we are!" The patch grew a bit bigger before stopping, all of them the same breed - yellowish orange, shaped like an upside-down bell. "They're real tasty," he promised, nodding at his new friend eagerly.

The foal watched from his lying-down position, ears pricking up to listen, as the Book-er washed his whiskers and chittered about mushrooms.

Tasty?

A brief surge of hope washed through him, but it was quickly dashed as he saw the mushrooms sprouting on the ground. He wasn't sure what he was meant to eat but he felt it should come from something soft and loving and protecting him, not cold and tiny on the ground. Despair gripped him and he let out a soft, weak wail--which was quickly silenced by another thought.

I deserve this.

It was a disjointed concept, unconnected to anything, but brought with it an odd, warm sense of peace. Suddenly calmed, he eyed Book-er and his little garden again.

"O-kay," he tried weakly, then leaned forward, nibbling at the mushrooms.

He savored the taste, pondering it. They were slightly peppery, almost spicy, but gentle on his tongue, the flavor flooding his mouth with something healthy. He immediately burped and began to gorge himself, grazing from his prone position--gangly legs folded beneath him--while eying Book-er gratefully.

At length, he blinked his empty eyes and shook his mane.

"Thank. You," he managed, struggling to find and pronounce the words. Then he peered at Book-er, as he went back to eating, his expression curious.

What was this creature? Where had he come from?

What lay beyond this cave?

________________

Booker watched happily, proud of himself, tail wagging a bit, as Khloros chowed down on the fruit - or well, fungus - of his magical labors. The numbat giggled when his new friend let out a strange sound, one he hadn't heard before, and grinned at the newborn. "Book-er knew you would like his mush-room friends! They're cool, 'cause you can eat some, and they come back from the spores they drop," he explained, eye going a bit starry from his wonder when it came to the powers of fungi. "So they're, like, always around! Pretty cool, huh?" His whiskers twitched in excitement, having worked himself into a bit of a nerd-out over his favorite subject.

Shaking his head back to the here-and-now, the numbat smiled, scratching at his left eye socket idly, a few strands of the thin fur there falling away. Khloros had the same look in his eyes that Baratheon often did before he did something that would both be exciting and extremely dangerous - curiosity, he'd said? "I'm Booker, by the way," he exclaimed, blushing a bit as he realised he'd never truly introduced himself to his friend. "Maybe when you feel a lil' better, we could try and get out of here? I think I could find my way back to where I live," he mused, trying to mentally re-trace his steps. After all, how hard could it be to find a place that glowed so brightly, and felt so... energized?

Shrugging, he sat back on his haunches, tapping his feet against the stone in a lazy pattern. "But only once ya feel better, 'cause I don't wanna hurt your legs," he stated, nodding at his own wisdom. He felt something towards the foal he never had before: he felt... protective.

Khloros listened with mounting concern, finally blurting his thoughts like a gangly, sick little volcano of worry.

"I ate your friends?" he managed to squeak out, wide-eyed with horror--made all the worst because he couldn't truly vocalize his thoughts. If he'd had the words for it he would have said, "Those mushrooms were your friends?" or perhaps "Are they dead? Did they hurt?!" but instead he could only stare mutely in horror.

In an entirely accidental answer to the second set of comments that the numbat had posed, the foal stumbled to his legs from the fright that had now been put into him, staring down blankly at the fungus. He didn't want to be a murderer! But... wasn't he already?

Is this my hell?

The foal turned wide glowing eyes back to Booker, blinking slowly. He saw the other's broken eye, now, saw that Booker's friends were grown and eaten in a horrible cycle of birth and death, and felt briefly faint--swaying in place--at the cruelty of it all. Long, spindly legs clutched at the rock, and the foal stumbled toward Booker for a step or two before speaking again.

"Is it all... pain?" he asked.

________________

Booker's eye widened at the outburst, and he quickly raised his arms, shaking his head in the negative. "No, no, no, it's okay -" He was cut off by the harsh clack! of the foal's hooves on the rock floor, and hurriedly scurried after the larger creature, ears and whiskers twitching anxiously. He smiled encouragingly when the foal came a few steps closer, but the expression faltered at Khloros' question. Thinking, the numbat sat back heavily, tail moving to loop around his small feet in a vain attempt to regain some of their warmth.

"Well," he started, voice soft but tone an attempt at soothing. "Some-times, there's pain, Khlor-ros," he explained, nodding to himself. He brightened as he got an idea, and pointed eagerly to the gem that invaded his eye socket. "Like this! My gem grew wrong, so my head has pain. But some days there's not as much, and some days I bare-ly feel it!" He thought of his adventures with his friends, and grinned, clapping his hands. "And even if it hurts, I've got friends to help! They talk to me, and take me on ad-ven-tures!"

The numbat tapped his feet again, moving to point at the leftover spores of the mushrooms his friend had eaten. "Look! These," he said, moving to scoop up the spores with both front paws, "are my friends! They're the same as the others ones, but now there's even more! In a little while, they'll be as big as the other ones - and I could even help them grow now, if I want-ed to!"

Eager and on a roll, now, he barreled on, smiling up at Khloros. "So no, it's not all pain! Some-times, bad things happen, and some-times they happen for no reason," he added, thinking of his own misfortune when it came to the way his gem had grown. "But the rest of it is worth it! You get to meet friends, and see new stuff, and learn new mag-ic, and... some days, it's like my eye doesn't matter. Because my big friends, like you, and my little friends, like these," he said, moving to spread the spores out on the hard rock of Tunnel K gently, like a loving father, "they help me. Will you let me help you?"

As Khloros listened to Booker's rather impressive speech, an intense and strange set of emotions flooded through him all at once--a deep sense of grief, of pity, of sympathy. Of longing. And then, simultaneously, both acceptance and gratitude. A warmth so deep, that it hurt. He felt the way a father might feel looking down at a beloved son, a son crippled and ill and helpless but still smiling at life's silver linings.

Khloros didn't think of this metaphor himself, or even wonder at his emotions, which washed in and out like the ebb and flow of a tide and left him feeling rather drained only an instant later. The last feeling lingered, a sort of bittersweet heartwrenching joy, and he leaned forward to try to press his (thankfully now-dry) head to the tiny creature before him in a strange sort of equine hug.

He snorted softly.

"Yes," he answered quietly. "Thank you."

Then the black foal paused, uncertain of the words to ask his next question: where was he to go? Where would Booker take him?

________________

After his speech, Book had taken his tail in hand, scratching at it nervously. He let out a tiny, surprised oof! as his front was engulfed in short, oily hair, the foal's snout pressed up against the numbat's stomach. Giggling in delight, he patted Khloros' gently, keeping away from the patches of injured skin and flesh. "No prob-lem," he murmured, happy that his borderline-rambling speech had helped, sneezing at the foal's snort. From this close, Booker could see that his friend's eyes were, in fact, giving off their own light, and his ears twitched in curiosity. Still, he kept his questions to himself, not wanting to scare the foal again with insensitive comments about glowy eyes and being worryingly skinny.

Thinking, Booker nodded to himself, patting Khloros' face once again. "I bet I could get us back to Polaris if I followed the mushrooms," he mused, gaining confidence with every word. "And then you could meet my big friends, like Bara and Mag-da! You'll like Pol-ar-is, it's real pretty and glowy, and it's nice and warm!" Unlike... here, he thought silently, shivering as another gust of cold wind blew through the tunnel. If it felt this bad to him, it had to be torture for his thin-coated and ill friend. "We could go... if you wanna?" He stared up at the foal with an eager grin, obviously trying to win him over to the idea.