The first week is but a blur in time, and in all honesty, Noah remembers little of it; time spent refuelling, recovering, finding his feet in the ‘wilderness’.

That one slips into another, the second, a sobering period of introspection, observation and tending to the wellbeing of his brittle dove. Though she and their combined education has been more than enough distraction, the young stallion begins to miss his home, the blazing sun’s warmth, and the taste of bitter brine upon the air; he dreams often of his family at night, the soldiers who (like him), were sent on their own ceremonial task - that who's success would inevitably define them.

An uneasy heart grows restless in the valley of the horned-ones, cramped, confined, and conscious of the echo of his mission as it once more falls loudly to the forefront of his mind; …only a warrior’s resolve can attain you the horn. The meaning is confronting, unmistakable he has come to realise, though he has toyed around for another, easier, many times over; it is a strange, ironical fate that has landed him in the very lap of the prize he seeks - ten fold. They, the prey, pass him by obliviously, blind to the anxious covet, nagging below the skin. He bides his time, for his soul is good, with a sound moral compass; so too has he learned that they are as though one, a unit, a body of strength far beyond the realms of his small-weighted experience. He feels as insignificant beside them as a solitary flea.

Still he watches.

Once or twice he sees the pale, creamy coat of the ‘prince’ pass by - the cocksure man whose physical, unnecessary assertions had left a more than bitter taste on Noah’s tongue. With no desire to mend the frayed stitching of that future, he sinks simply, back beneath the cover of his copse.

Another week begins, bringing with it a fresh tide of hope and reconciliation. The want to leave, to turn back home, is fading like the strength of the season; the heat behind both is softening, cooling, though only one   really serves to soothe his spirit. Turquoise pools dive into a vivid morning sky, blue with soft, scattered streamer clouds wafting slowly in the wind; it is filled with promise, and the stallion is brimming with anticipation. The event long awaited draws near and feathers bristle delightedly across tingling pores, as the chilly air combs through their assembly.

Outwards and upwards stretch each massive wing, beating down and flexing, warming the strapping, muscular mesh beneath; he inhales deeply, one gulp and then the next, filling ravenous lungs and freeing his mind. It has been too long since he last felt the liberty of altitude, and excitement makes him giddy. Without further delay (even before breakfast), he launches towards the stone crevice which Nora (still) calls home. “Nora!” he sings out brightly, loudly - should she be nestled amid princess dreams; prancing the final steps below a playfully snaking neck. Waves of flaccid blonde bounce and swing to the rhythm of his stride, both around his chiselled skull and long, roving legs; the clacking of blunt teeth ricochets off the stony wall before him.

Life was about to feel better…

Noah

I was born a warrior
I was born a warrior