The mare, obnoxiously pleasant and unsettlingly forward, seemed to throw the stallion of centre almost as instantly as Africa- or that was how it seemed from her viewpoint. Coal-tinged ears swivelled like searching satellites through the dull shroud of night, and cautiously they soaked up the voices; his deep, grating and guarded; hers airy as though born upon the fluttery brilliance of a butterfly’s powdered wings. Their coats glimmered in the cool blue half-light, shades of brown, grey and black all glossed with the weakest cerulean sheen.

Then... something entirely unexpected happened while she stood motionlessly out of their range. Windwalker fell upon their meeting like a vulture to a corpse.

He had changed. A new lustre glossed his sleek black coat and the wretchedness in his carriage had been swapped for marvellous athleticism; slim, raven skull flounced with defiant arrogance atop the peak of his thickened neck and the mane flanking it, flapped wildly to the rhythm of his new bouncing gait. How long had she really been cowering in the bleak shadow of pity? The glare cast by her pale, yellowy eyes was sullen; filled with twisted regret and simmering resentment towards he who had corralled her, manipulated her so crudely, and then stepped from the weight of that into what appeared to be carefree composure. She had not been able to shed the grief from her stricken soul so easily. She wore heavily still the festering graze of his anger, and watched as he flaunted like a needy whore before the strangers, with expanding frustration; dejection.

Africa had lost all interest- for the second time in her relatively short existence. Even while darkness pulled away her family, destroyed lives and ruined hope, the young creature found only enough energy to wallow in her own despair. She held not enough confidence to waltz from her cover; nor did she have the will compelling her to confront him. Really, she wished right then that Silas had never been sent to find him during those final moments in the desert; that he had gone home with that other mare by the old fallen log in the Threshold; that he had never found reason to chide her, torment her or bring her so heavily upon her knees.

Love... She scoffed in silence, cursing the word which had been so damaged.

Africa