The sun would rise soon. Its warmth would return again (though too briefly), to soothe away remnant aches and pains, all exaggerated by the chill of this hovel – a far crueller version of hell he has since decided gloomily. Little does the gold-topped boy know, because he’s sulking in a sense, mourning and counting his losses, that these are the warmest, brightest months here in all of the year; he dallies, when he should revel in the mild winds; hides, while the strange faces of this land hustle and bustle busily about their obligations. They barely notice the newest man to their ranks, but he is glad to be overlooked, relieved in fact, for peace and quiet is really all he knows. Soft, dewy dawn light is diluting the darkness around him – his veil of invisibility is disintegrating and cool skin flinches, exposed, vulnerable.

“Rest well fair Moon…” he bids softly, fondly. She is the constant in this unruly new world; his guardian and friend.

Already the pale hum of activity is resonating through the valley (the prison, with impenetrable walls on either side), and he fidgets on the spot, stretching stiffness out of one long wing and then the other; a brisk breeze strokes warm ivory beneath and a tingle snakes down the length of his spine. The time is drawing nearer. It has to be…

For the last week (though days more could have passed), he has followed the same routine; the renewed, young warrior has slept little, so not a single moment has been lost to chance. Beneath the guise of a gnarled, pine grove, his improvised sanctuary, he watches her cave across the valley - she seldom materialises from its murky, gaping mouth, and he muses quietly, concerned, for there was not a lot of her to begin with. Aqua eyes scan the dusty, distant doorstep again carefully, though it’s hard to see whether the clipped grass placed down upon it remains withered and dead - or eaten as intended. It is time to fetch more regardless (it might be another day she spends sealed away), and burning muscles drive him into the open before too many of this queer, horned population wake to see.

Almost instantly his measured footfalls find comfort upon spongey, emerald turf. It grows far sweeter here than even the inner sun-kissed island, and amid the various displeasures he has found already (the cold, the crowd, the walls), the taste of the cooler climate growth is very much adored. Hungrily he sinks his lips to the already cropped fringe and forages there greedily for any longer strands before missed - there is a distinct arc spreading away from the tree line around him and eventually he is once more upon its rim, ravaging, expanding. After he is satisfied (though barely full), he plucks a selection of the tallest grass accessible amd clutching it as delicately as possible, he recoils towards the cave.

Often he considers whether their following Toulouse had been the very best decision - really it plagues him, and his thoughts revisit that whirlwind in the forest again and again, desperate for validation. Never does he feel better about it though, nor any safer, and increasingly he tortures himself thinking of the dragon-mare, the quiet mother and the stranger with the naked trees on his head. They had each brought to the table an individual comforting quality; ease it seemed, which the one they had chosen (had they though?), gave least. Thickly lashed eyes blink suddenly as his mind descends back into reality. He is paused, there, still in the open, and his jaw has fastened an unfortunate grip about her gift. A sigh, as though purged from the cavernous depth of despair itself, rattles velvet nostrils and the winged-one moves slowly on to finish his quest.

Had they been railroaded, in their weakest of hours…?

As he turns quietly, pensively, down the last length of the rabbit trail (it curls loosely around a rocky outcrop between), he is stunned to discover the doe outside in the sun. Knees stiffen hesitantly, hooves feel all too suddenly heavy, and cautious eyes survey the situation uncertainly – it was true he’d been avoiding her. The body, so lean and light barely casts any shadow upon the rocky wall behind; it is illuminated, held gently in the grip of first light; exquisite. A bubble catches high in his throat and he swallows hard, saliva gathering along his motionless tongue - between the succulent shoots laid across it. What should he do? He takes a nervous step forward and joints grind together confusedly; flaxen sweeps down before his gaze and nostrils tremble as he procrastinates, dithering inches above bare earth.

Noah

I was born a warrior
I was born a warrior