Painted golden and white, gleaming colours badly bruised by the tribulation of a promise, Noah’s skin ripples above a taught mesh of brawn; it’s a deceptive exhibition of youthful vigour – might and power. His slim, palomino ears rest coolly backwards, nestled against a bed of lively, tangled, spoiled flaxen, and for the most part he appears quite relaxed, markedly so (given the nature of recent history). Afflicted however, raw emotion stews, seethes, beneath this façade like the belly of a dormant volcano, and only the fine line of discontent angling his brow, betrays silent grace. Eyelids carry at half mast, burying unhappy eyes below a dense hedge of copper-cream lashes; the strained expression plaguing them is lost without trace. The heavy skull his low-slung neck supports, bounces gently to the off-beat rhythm of his damaged stride, while soft, stained feathers sway and swish playfully around each limb and hoof; they work hard together to favour the right fore, as even the diligent threads of magic couldn’t sow back together perfection.

Frayed thoughts leap and bound between memories, feelings, and then stretch anxiously ahead to the future; they are fickle as the weather, the wind… the foaming sea, so long away behind. Loneliness, this unchartered realm of sheer friendlessness; bound to a queer man and this foreign dove by what? Held there by paper chains in the rain – and the sky holds nothing but the promise of storms. There is nothing else for him in this wretched land.

He thinks of the dragon-winged mare, how snuck glances her way had been so enamoured by the otherworldly strength she portrayed; the oddness, and confusion enough to shatter his understanding of the world; legs would pause only briefly as temptation beckoned wickedly to his curious heart, but his promise (foolishness he realises now), was to guard the girl. Then to her does his muse turn, the delicious caramel swirl of wandering tail in the wind; what is it that enchants him so? Beneath heavy awnings, turquoise pools examine the narrow pitch of each hip, the rump - now devoid of extra feminine pad; ivory quills hug the flex of each thinning thigh.

She is beautiful - even scarred, and jealousy sours the bile in his otherwise empty gut when glimpse of the cloth-laden prince in front, is caught.

Anxiousness…

He needs to shake it off. The wind blows more keenly against his eyes; it’s that tearless stage when they take on sheen of water and tension builds behind them. Where are they going, really? Vision of that old rugged cliff line first perceived, serves to distract him and he scoffs internally at the enthusiasm which had bolstered his initial arrival – had he only known… He wonders what those glittering, watching eyes in the crowd of his mind – his mother, father, family back on the island, think of this rash endeavour; they shed no hint, though he delves desperately into their midst for reassurance. The heart within him isn’t bitter, but it crashes insecurely against a cage of ribs and resentment stems, sprouts from well concealed fear. Another oncoming night does little to soothe him.    

There are voices ahead (again), yet he makes little effort to hear what is said – once or twice before was spoken impenetrable tongue, and that easily, his interest had been lost.

Around him, a great labyrinth of bushland has risen and he regards the wild nature of it with a sharp, short breath. There was no taste of brine upon the air, no warm sand to cushion his weight – nothing at all to reignite his zeal at this point. With flagging energy he stops a good distance short of the (paused) pair and lifts his withered, worn face into the mild breeze; he drinks the exotic flavour dressing it, deeply. Aching arms lift thickly feathered wings upwards to stretch out borne stiffness, but they collide with a low roofline; branches interlocked, burdened down by the bulk of so many summer leaves upon them. Eyes dart their way abruptly as his poll dodges low in defence, and beyond their dancing silhouette he can see the rich purpling sky.

While he dallies to the rear, the pair begin to move ahead – through vine and bramble, not along the (very) rough trail which had for so long been their guide. He returns his attention at last, only to find them missing from the spot and instant panic squeezes his heart with a vice grip. He cannot help the fear which rolls like a king tide through his core; it floods his brain, drowns his mind. Teeth brandish his booming voice, but he realises in that moment that her identity is a mystery – the name was never given, and instead he breaks into a short-burst of canter. Flared, frantic nostrils scour the earth where their scent lingers thickest, and he traces it left into the scrub (where they surely still are); boldly he dives, with wings pinned in tight.