The first week is but a blur in time, and in all honesty, Noah remembers little of it; time spent refuelling, recovering, finding his feet in the ‘wilderness’.

That one slips into another, the second, a sobering period of introspection, observation and tending to the wellbeing of his brittle dove. Though she and their combined education has been more than enough distraction, the young stallion begins to miss his home, the blazing sun’s warmth, and the taste of bitter brine upon the air; he dreams often of his family at night, the soldiers who (like him), were sent on their own ceremonial task - that who's success would inevitably define them.

An uneasy heart grows restless in the valley of the horned-ones, cramped, confined, and conscious of the echo of his mission as it once more falls loudly to the forefront of his mind; …only a warrior’s resolve can attain you the horn. The meaning is confronting, unmistakable he has come to realise, though he has toyed around for another, easier, many times over; it is a strange, ironical fate that has landed him in the very lap of the prize he seeks - ten fold. They, the prey, pass him by obliviously, blind to the anxious covet, nagging below the skin. He bides his time, for his soul is good, with a sound moral compass; so too has he learned that they are as though one, a unit, a body of strength far beyond the realms of his small-weighted experience. He feels as insignificant beside them as a solitary flea.

Still he watches.

Once or twice he sees the pale, creamy coat of the ‘prince’ pass by - the cocksure man whose physical, unnecessary assertions had left a more than bitter taste on Noah’s tongue. With no desire to mend the frayed stitching of that future, he sinks simply, back beneath the cover of his copse.

Another week begins, bringing with it a fresh tide of hope and reconciliation. The want to leave, to turn back home, is fading like the strength of the season; the heat behind both is softening, cooling, though only one   really serves to soothe his spirit. Turquoise pools dive into a vivid morning sky, blue with soft, scattered streamer clouds wafting slowly in the wind; it is filled with promise, and the stallion is brimming with anticipation. The event long awaited draws near and feathers bristle delightedly across tingling pores, as the chilly air combs through their assembly.

Outwards and upwards stretch each massive wing, beating down and flexing, warming the strapping, muscular mesh beneath; he inhales deeply, one gulp and then the next, filling ravenous lungs and freeing his mind. It has been too long since he last felt the liberty of altitude, and excitement makes him giddy. Without further delay (even before breakfast), he launches towards the stone crevice which Nora (still) calls home. “Nora!” he sings out brightly, loudly - should she be nestled amid princess dreams; prancing the final steps below a playfully snaking neck. Waves of flaccid blonde bounce and swing to the rhythm of his stride, both around his chiselled skull and long, roving legs; the clacking of blunt teeth ricochets off the stony wall before him.

Life was about to feel better…

Noah

I was born a warrior
I was born a warrior

It seems ironic that the winged stallion is the happiest he has been since arriving in this valley of the horned-ones, now, right as he prepares to leave (even if he venture isn’t planned to be permanent). Aurora Basin, in every respect, is cold; the friendliest thus far met within the ominous mountain prison is the crimson fringed mare, Akumi – and she, effervescent, radiant, hails from borderlands still beyond here. There has been no trace of the Songbird (the breath of fresh air her presence represented), since the storm, and neither has Noah seen the likes of the silver horned one, Roland. Perhaps had any touched base through the last blur of weeks, the festering attitude towards them, their home, might have not have been so poor. As it stands, he feels as though Nora and himself, are out of place (and rather unwanted, given the state of initial relations); as dissimilar as their wings were from horns.

Perhaps there is a twinge of resentment forming for those insincere animals dwelling around him; he tries in earnest to be rational, and not tar all like them, with the same bitter brush.  

Still, on this day, nothing but perfect excitement reflects in his mood.

As those eager eyes settle their dance beneath a slowing veil of white to hone in upon the uninviting gap in the rock face, he finds (much to his surprise, only the full flavour of a curvy chocolate, vanilla rump, silken ribbons trailing along the dirt behind - she is quick to rise at his summons, however, from her hovel, and the scrabble of movement prompts him to avert his intrusively persistent gaze. Once or twice, the islander withholds the urge to swing forward, catch her - or prop, which ever need came about first, but his grubby-faced charge eventually made the turn around to meet him with a groggy expression.  

“Hey!” …he replies, lungs bursting forth the bright greeting that instantly swallowed the soft tender note of her own. From between the rounder feathers by his shoulder, careful teeth free her gift; a ritual offering for the dainty dove, which started in the beginning as grass to nourish her, but as the need grew less (along with the painfully sharp variations beneath her coat), he brought to her flowers instead. The one he drapes across the printed dust before her this time reminds him of home - the reef and its rainbow of interwoven colours. He admires it thoughtfully for a moment.

At the same time she offers those romantically poetic syllables that by now, he is used to - though only the establishment of morning from their midst, has been achieved - at least he hopes. For the sake of peace, lips curl into a gracious smile.

“You follow?” he asks a minute later, fidgeting, waiting for her to agree. Adrenaline lashes his sensibility, leading it astray, beckoning it into a wild battle of wills - it was not his ambition to startle her at all. Brilliant teal eyes invite her forward, away from the dingy mouth that lurked by her rear, and he shifts rearward to allow her breathing space; one of the first things learned was that the delicate princess preferred to control that bubble of space around her and often she slipped from its invisible line on her own accord (those moments fed his intrigue). His face turns after, lifts to view the blue dome, and the stallion rolls his muscular shoulders keenly.

Urgency begs hindquarters into action and fore hooves prance obligingly in front. He aims for the barren centre of the (wide) corridor - it was long enough to sustain a solid gallop - for lifting his weight was not so simple; she, undoubtedly, would rise like the fleet-footed wisp she was, and from a standstill (he fancied). Forward he marches, gathering speed quickly, revelling in the thundering beat of his upward-bound hooves. Vast wingspan opens, doubles, and feathers thud against the rushing air around him - it gathers beneath their magnificent length; ascending at last, he builds height slowly (it seems he has lost the condition which saw him initially arrive upon these shores). The stallion is not fashioned for swiftness, nor aerial agility - instead he turns a wide, motionless circle, gliding with perfect precision, searching for that updraft that will see him onto that famous old heavenly highway.

Exiting Basin

Noah

I was born a warrior
I was born a warrior