The days seemed to pass by so slowly when spent alone. The white bareness of the Steppe was all his weary eyes ever had to focus on and the voice of the wind was all that kept him company. He couldn’t place what was keeping him out here, what was driving him to spend hours in silence that worsened his insanity. Perhaps it was because the Steppe was so flat in places, so large and wide that one could never see the end of the land and the sky wrapped around you like a blanket of stars. He could not enjoy soaring above the mountains, not with his wings like this, and so instead, he opted to watch the sky. For hours on end.

In the mornings, after a night spent in darkness and the pale light of the moon, the dawn was always announced by a brightening of the sky over the mountains. Black would fade to a dull blue toward the east that would then gradually bleed into vibrant amber and brilliant gold. The rest of the sky would slowly brighten as the sun climbed higher above the horizon, until the stars disappeared and everything overhead was blue. Of course, this was on the ideal day. Other times, a thick overcast layer hung low over the Steppe and thick snowflakes fell lazily from the ceiling of grey.

Night was much the same, except in reverse. Often times, when there were few clouds present in the sky, they would change from white and grey to pink and purple, their edges gilded by the light of the dying sun until it disappeared altogether. It was hard to tell if there were clouds in the sky at night, unless the light of the moon outlined their silhouettes or prominent constellations were hidden behind their masses. When it was clear though, looking upwards was like staring into infinity. There was so much space, so much darkness that seemed to extend forever.

In all his boredom and all his watching, he had learned patterns in the sky and the atmosphere. He knew that when it was warm for several days, unusually warm, and then suddenly the temperature plummeted again, clouds would start to form. The weather would deteriorate gradually as the cold settled in and snow would begin to fall. Wind would often start to pick up between these changes in weather systems, but thunderstorms were rare so far north. It was too cold and the air was far too dry for thunderheads to develop. Not that a storm would do much to bother him when he was on the ground and he had the mountains for shelter, but it had always been something that concerned him when flying.

Each day, when there was enough light in the sky by which to see, he would count his feathers after watching the sunrise. Their growth was slow, but at least now his wings did not look so barren. He had not yet mustered the courage to attempt flight again. He knew it would never be an ability that he could lose, as he had spent so much of his life in the air, but he was afraid of the disappointment that would likely follow such an attempt. Most likely, it would be several more weeks before his wings were full enough to hold the air beneath them and carry his weight. So, for now, he spent his days watching the skies, envying the birds and enjoying the vast expanse of snow that reminded him of home.

"talk talk talk"

@[Roland]