With every step nearer, she could feel the sharp fragments of her broken heart slice through flesh - through her core. Pieces, she could feel, sailed up the labyrinth of veins feeding her withered, beaten body like knife blades hacking, all along the way. It was more agonising than even the raw wound beneath her barrel which festered and fermented under the ravenous plague of flies pursuing her. It was more gruesome still, than the snapped and splintered bones baking in the sunlight, as her wing swung horrendously to the rhythm of her wearying walk. Africa trembled, in shock, stricken by the immeasurable weight of her grief. Hers was a mind that could not find the light. Tortured, haunted, scarred… and the world was too much to front alone. Tears rolled on, staining dull cheeks with hopeless sorrow - even as the wracking sobs began to slow.

Had the God of the Earth failed his most faithful?

What would she tell their daughter?

Where could they go from here?

Though Africa’s rage was numbing beneath every wave of resignation through her mind, she couldn’t bear the thought of the child entwining her life into this, plague… She regretted that night now as the dim shadow of trees melted across her; wished to the Gods that she had never left the Throat, not put herself in the path of the Gallant’s kind heart. She was sure his fall from grace was her fault - she had started the avalanche by distracting his good sense. Or was it the Constrictor (in every sense of the word), or Ranjiri the child who had forsaken him? Was it Cera, blinded by whatever bitterness and numb to the honest, selfless love he had been given, who had planted the seed which bloomed into this epic demise? Africa hated them all, she loathed herself. Each face dancing before her blurred eyes had contributed to the downfall of a God in his own right, the Ascended; they had played him, crippled him, murdered him…

She was forced to pause the journey suddenly.

Head slung low, breath grating in her parched, stinging throat, Africa felt the knife again drive into her abdomen. The pain of her breaking heart (of the battle wounds still worn) robbed her of precious seconds. She pressed on stubbornly, hobbling and staggering pathetically around the never-ending path. The Legatus, now nothing, she could hear was following. The machine in his care clunked against rock and dip and groaned as it rolled ever deeper into alien territory - it was too alien. Strange smells already lingered about the earth, waste from creatures who had once been called friend. She had no time for them now, no energy to spend resenting their treachery.

Africa came upon the glade many hours later, that opened like a verandah before the beautiful love-nest crafted by her mate. As her pale eyes set wistfully upon it, memories engulfed her. She had come to Helovia as only a child with not one notch of experience to tarnish her soul. Frivolous and innocent she had been turned free across a land that would bring her only but suffering and heartache. Amongst the shadow of relentless pain however, one light kept driving forward, splitting the depression that seemed now to be as natural within, as the bond she shared with dear Silas. Midas, time and time again, had been her knight in shining armour - the rock, as the world around her began to crumble. He had been the constant in her never ending confusion, the strength to balance her weakness.

He was the calm water, and she the wild fire…

She was the wrong, and he was her right.

With all of the strength she could find, Africa turned to find Rostislav and the Basin's machine. Eyes found the charred, butchered shell of her lover quickly after and they beckoned him closer, ’Please… don’t leave me here Midas.’ she begged silently as she collapsed for the final time against his slumped skull. ’I need you, Zahra needs you… Who will save us now?’ Lungs moaned awfully as her lips pressed a tender, trembling kiss upon his closed eye, and when finally there was not a sob left in her failing frame to give, she whispered… “I love you so much.”