In all truth, Africa would have wanted nothing more than to bury her only child beneath clouds of cotton wool - layers and layers of hope and positivity (no matter how false each might be) - but she was fast losing touch with reality.

Still bleeding, weeping, throbbing, was the wound from when she had been so cruelly impaled upon the rack of the wily, white Arah, an enemy that had lulled her momentarily to trust, to forgive. So too did the nearly severed wing fester in the mild Orangemoon sunshine, beneath the voracious harry of black flies; maggots hatching, feeding, in a pulsing white frenzy. She seemed none the wiser now, that blood-stained mare, as she staggered blindly ever onward, eyes set always upon a hazy horizon - the prospect of finding her lover alive. Pain had become so normal, both physically and mentally, a nagging reminder of all the many wrongs she had served in this life (she could not find the good any longer) - she needed it now, craved the agony she felt she so deserved.

While a world of loss and regret stormed around her, drove her ever nearer to the brink, the superficial agony caused some grounding at least.

The snivelling of her daughter behind, came as a fading echo of reason to her mind.

"Midas would've never…"

It brought new tears to her eyes, still a greater feeling of disappointment, failure. Was there anything on this earth she could not spoil? The once elegant crest, nestled beneath bright eternal flames (yet another tattoo of her failure), bowed savagely as she sobbed into the wind, and Silas sailed down to rest upon her; flaring the downy black feathers of his breast to warm the chill prickling her tatty, stained coat - it was all he could do, the only support he could offer his miserable beloved. Her skin crawled beneath his tender gesture. "I will find him..." she blurted abruptly through their bond - thoughts streaming by the barrier she had constructed. The Zephyr trembled with concern, and his ornate crest lifted from a slender, glossy nape.

'He’s de…'

“NO!”

Silas was lying, that much was clear… There was another way. Somewhere ahead was the stallion who could replicate Midas’ spitting image - that was where they were going, come hell or high water. Anger renewed and wild desperation forced the bird from her mind once again, and the frail creature pressed forward beneath a potent wave of intoxicating adrenaline. “Come Zahra,” the drawn, harrowed voice of a stranger called out - but Africa the Starry-Eyed didn’t turn to discover her daughter lagging.

The air grew ever colder, and heavenly blue turned a bleak wash of grey; only days later she was striding through fresh powder snow in a region she had not dared cross since that very first encounter with death. Aurora Basin she knew, lay nearby - somewhere - and in it was Midas. Light-golden and glittering with anticipation, her eyes searched for any sign of life; her heart thundered, pulsed deafeningly through her swivelling ears.

“MIDAS!” she screamed into the vast emptiness around her. It was flat, white, and not even a bird's startle broke the eerie stillness. “Midas… Please!” There was pitiful longing in her voice, but it never occurred to her that there would be no answer returned - Africa would not stop until she found him.