Silas gouged his ruthless, hooked beak into the soft, scarlet flesh of the young spruce cone. Birdsong’s finest fruits were slowly withering out of existence, but occasionally he discovered a bounty nestled below dense foliage or hidden in the topmost branches, all ripe for the taking. Perhaps he ate more voraciously than he might have ordinarily. The burning intensity of the sun this day was overbearing for the day-lovers – Africa had been dozing beneath the cover of shade for nearly an hour – so for the Roc zephyr, nocturnal by nature and glittered in starlight, the stress was building quickly.
He often camped out in the lush, pointed canopy of the conifers; they offered a brilliant vantage point, especially from the tallest amongst them in the forest.
A sparking flash of movement high in the air towards the south caught his sharp eye, as he devoured the last of the tasty cone – it was not the steady sail of an eagle, nor the rapid flutter of a hunting hawk, and anything smaller had no reason to be travelling so far above the canopy. Slowly he turned his head, and suspicion glinted behind his fastidious gaze. Silas knew well who belonged in the valley of the Falls, and who in turn did not... The glossy black plumage fared across his breast and the subtle purple sheen shining as the passing breeze stroked them; a wary rumble resonated underneath.
With a thud the core of the fruit fell to the forest floor, and the Starry-Eyed jumped with surprise. Bleary, sandy gaze lifted towards the sentry above, but cleared hurriedly when they noticed his rigid posture. What is it? she asked, blood pumping trepidation through her core, and her bonded offered vision of another zephyr (that was neither Fina or Neve), hastening over the cliffs towards them. “Astraeus?” she part whispered, when Silas blinked at last and the barky wood surrounding materialised once more. Is it Sohalia’s companion?
Silas had seen the young Wakiya a number of times before they had left Dragon’s Throat – before the Transcended had embarked on her venture to spread word about the Academy (or so Africa had assumed after many weeks spent in the Sultana’s absence). He turned, razor-like talons grasping at the supple, jade foliage, to view the approaching avian. Ye... he answered in thought, and unfurled his glimmering ebony wingspan. He took off to intercept, but as they neared, there was an unmistakable urgency riddled through the other zephyr’s body-language and it made him take heed.
Follow him...
Africa focused all of her energy into transforming, channelling magic before emerging quickly as a parrot – shape shifting had become less taxing over time, and the pain she had more or less learned to bear. Though her body was far stockier than either of their sleek, aerodynamic frames, the one-winged knew that it was easily the faster mode of travel. Minutes later, both the parrot and her bonded were winging south above the Threshold.
Golden eyes saw the pale pair long before she arrived in person. Though worry engulfed her instantly, naturally (either beloved Rasta or her sand-sister were ill), her brittle mind lurched with apprehension – the Starry-Eyed had managed thus far to avoid all contact with the Sun’s herd (except of course Satanic Silk, whom she did not doubt had betrayed her whereabouts). Tiny lungs gulped a breath, and together she and Silas began to descend towards the Meadow.
To spare her sisters the gruesome reality of her ability, Africa landed a small distance away. Bones warped and duplicated; twisted and snapped, until she had resumed the figure of a bleak-hued, one-winged mare, and boldly she set aside her reservations to find out what was the matter. Long legs bounded towards them and a canter, and as she pulled up, the gravity of the Transcended’s health struck her. This grim scene seemed to be a reoccurring thing of late, and she couldn’t help but wonder, as she began to pray and to hum wordlessly, whether the murderer mentioned by Midas was to blame.
She called to the Earth through the delicate hymn, inviting tiny sprouts to rise from their tender bed. Thick lashes seeled gently around her troubled eyes; comforted by the presence of the blind palomino, and she closed her mind to all but the task before her. A dozen or more mud wielding vines began to twist to life, growing longer and longer as they homed in on the wounded mare’s legs. Their supple length coiled upwards around each weary limb, and tiny tendrils emerged to caress the skin wherever it had been damaged; every bruise and bite was covered by the mesh of pulsing, warm plant. They continued gradually, leaning never on her battered body for support, but holding their own weight quite in spite of gravity’s pull; propping up the body as it healed beneath.
They slowed when at last the bruised right wing had been soothed. Africa’s serene song too softened, and as the vines recoiled, shrinking quickly back beneath their father’s shell, the dapple grey mare’s eyes opened again quietly. Exhaustion plagued them (like Midas had warned), and she swayed wearily above the vanishing magic. “Soh...” she whispered vaguely, knees trembling as her body’s mass seemed suddenly to double above them, “...I’m so sorry I left you all.”
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