The hunt is brief. Dense vegetation thins mere seconds after the first plunge (it had been hacked crudely), into a passage wide enough only to pass through, along. Time is a blur. A thundering pulse drowns out the ambience, the hum of the prince’s short sentence somewhere ahead, the waffle and fidget of birdlife in the foliage up high; before his thoughts assemble above the chaos of worry, he finds that she is there, beneath him!

“Oh n…” tongue presses high between parallel rows of flat teeth, and he braces for an unavoidable collision, sun-kissed feathers peeling wide from each flank. Cascading hair dances wildly around stiff front pasterns - they drive massive hooves home in vain effort to minimise damage to the chocolate-topped rump in front. The taste of woman, of the caked blood and dust, penetrates broad nares; these rise with his face, well clear to the left as he attempts to slip around her slight frame instead.

Instantly she discovers him looming, and a clever eye notes the about-face of each fine ear (cradled by tangled, silky tendrils); he expects the reaction, naturally, through dismay swells through him all the same. Her flesh slides against his pinging, hot breast and his own pointed cups swing askew atop his poll - one right, one back. Abrupt, cutting pain engulfs the left knee somewhere below and he winces, sucking in a sharp breath; startling backwards and scuffing away, with an awkward, clumsy jerk. She is a snake coiled, rising, turning, and the sheen of her pearly fangs catches in a shaft of sunlight - still he scoots. No sooner had it started, the event fails, ends, and the retiring eyes of a timid princess return. Her darling jaws descend into a look more demure and one turned eye is fixed down upon her.

‘No, it was me,’ he wants to tell her, to dust the insecurity from those downtrodden eyes, but he cannot forge the stunning, wild tongue she harbours and tells her simply, softly, “me too…”

A more natural, normal (though attentive), posture is resumed, and he waits in contemplative silence for her to walk. Ahead of them the prince’s words lift forth, and golden ears dance to meet them; the other is watching, waiting, and the response comes swiftly (if not a little flustered), “no nothing, I… it’s all good now…” Aqua gaze examines the other’s unsettlingly frigid expression across the space (the apparent coldness in his striking, pale eyes), through drop to pastel lips when they again, begin to speak. “Name?” he slurs, rather taken, distracted, by the elegance the peculiar male personified. “Oh, Noah…” He pulls free his eyes when they rove brazenly beyond lean features to find pairs of queer headdress (the badger face turns away), and swings them towards the doe; tenderness pooling in their midst. Does she understand?

Minutes later they are again in motion (at least the two men), travelling to the trees skirting the glade on the furthest side; he pauses occasionally for a hasty mouthful of grass, and an epiphany hits him as he does so - the one who leads has not eaten at all! The hum of voice fills the air, and the dumbstruck stallion’s attention returns as he swings forward to close the distance.