Only one moon had passed since the herd had been tumbled into the underground refuge. All sense of time had been lost; the sun’s warmth never stroked the cool stone floor there, nor did the full autumn moon shed its ethereal glow. Still apprehension gripped the minds of those who mulled through the vast underground network of rooms and tunnels, and few found peace enough to sleep- those who were blessed with such, collapsed because they could stand no longer. Africa had fled into the depths; the panic and strain too much for her already troubled, fatigued mind to cope with, and quietly she stood hunched beneath the mists expelled by the churning wall of water.

For many night’s she had carried around the bag gifted to her by the Sun God, not strapped to her body like perhaps it could have been, but clasped between the security of her blunt, pearly teeth. The Glowing Room will filled with welcome quietude, and though she could hardly quell the storm of thoughts and memories as they raged inside her skull, the young dappled mare found much respite in her solitude. “Silas?” she called through the privacy of their snug bond, and the Roc skipped towards her obligingly, razor talons grazing the unusual carpet of moss and fine grass which spread across the floor. “This satchel, do you think if I held it here... (the mare lifted the bag up to sit just beneath the bulge of her left shoulder, quite level with her elbow) ...you might be able to secure the strap? I think there’s a stri…” But she needn’t have tried to explain how the buckle would fasten, her companion held a keen mind; and already was clinging to her silken robe, adjusting the belt around her foreleg.

“You’re so quiet lately…” she hummed gently for him, his dimly lit lilac eye meeting the softness of her pale gaze briefly before returning to his task. ‘Feeling… useless…’ His mind stammered in response, and Africa’s heart nearly broke. ‘Help…help army… fight.’ he told her glancing again to meet her devoted gaze. “Silas, I can’t f…” She began unhappily, regretfully but was interrupted. ‘Won’t put you… through pain. Know your… gentle heart.’ Not often did they work so hard to communicate, their minds were so in tune these days that rarely was such focus and strain required.

The avian pulled tightly the strap and at last the satchel was wrapped tightly around her upper limb. Africa released her grip, and watched with intrigue as it held firm. “Thank you.” She gestured affectionately with billowy breath to ruffle the sleek purple-sheened feather’s cloaking his breast and in return the Zephyr preened the residual droplets of spring water beaded upon her supple nose. Still unfinished, he dipped his sharp beak beneath the flap of the bag and drew from its midst the first feather- red and blunt at its base instead of long and tapering like his own beautiful array. Delicately the quill was woven into the top of her mane, right beneath the curious swing of her long storm-grey ear; and beside it he laced two glossy black, star-speckled ones which he drew from his own glorious wings.

He returned to the bag and drew another, much longer and vivid blue (there were three to follow; yellow, red and green, each drawn from the elaborate tail of various macaws), and fluttered to the mare’s rear to tie it amidst the crimson and black hues of her long, thick tail. Silas repeated this until all four feathers decorated her hair, and once again he turned upon himself, and pulled from his tail a long lavish quill which too was laced with star-shine. That too was mingled with the rest. When he had finished; the bag emptied, the Zephyr returned to her withers and nestled against the warmth generated beneath the silk cloak between them. “We will meet Gaucho.” She whispered, both into his young, dutiful mind, and aloud. “We will do everything we can to help the resistance....”

Africa

The Roc croaked placidly to signify the end of their private moment, and Africa’s heavy eyes cleared of the brooding fog spread across their pallid, clement surface. Curious, her snowy complexion lifted from a lethargic droop with stiffening ears to find the monochrome stallion nearing, and with him naturally, the emblazoned Fina. Soft, flimsy nostrils rimmed with dusky-grey, puffed warmly to welcome both friends closer into the gentle roll of eerie mist- into the tranquillity she had found, when everywhere else seemed to leak unhappiness, uncertainty and fear. Even with wretched wonderings and fears clashing within, the miniature ecosystem embracing her here; presumably untouched before; faultless and ridiculously beautiful, seemed to quash some of that destitution which seemed so utterly inescapable. She was more than ready to share its rare quality with Midas now, along his Phoenix comrade who had seemed so disturbed by the prospect of cave-crawling to begin with.

Silas murmured quietly as his mount shifted to accommodate the Sultan’s company, passing a cautiously assessing glance by Fina whom so far, he had found little success befriending.

Beneath the weight of each of his steps small comforts of home; familiar and moving, spread like ripples across an otherwise still pond; fire like that which had offered console through lonely, grief-stricken nights (the sacred temple which she missed now so terribly), and gold, shimmering magic which he had gifted part thereof to her so that the amulets she wore still today, might hang snugly around her neck. Both brightened the opaque screen blanketing the mossy floor.

The Oracle drew a breath and offered to him an inert smile, but the flames too engulfing her long mottled locks were withering quickly with the waning hope in her heart. Quietly she watched the shadow clad stallion close the small distance, smart (now well-practiced) eyes finding the weakness pooling behind the bridge of stoicism portrayed- she felt a delicate sadness grip Silas’s heart, as she too looked then upon the stunning, feathered mask of the stallion’s normally aloof companion. She did not seem so distant today (tonight), and listening harks found the light click of her friend’s beak as the young Zephyr filled with concern.

Africa knew the direness of their situation; she was not imprudent enough to laugh off the bleakness and brush off that danger which warmed their doorstep at that very moment. Many had been lost to the darkness; helpless souls consumed by it, now hungered after those remaining, hiding themselves fretfully away. It was a terrible time, perhaps worse than the Endless Night- though still the warmth of the Sun God’s presence festered somewhere deep in her soul. Maybe that sourced the silent strength she leaned on now; the faint flicker of hope that they had not been abandoned completely. The dappled creature was afraid, undoubtedly, but the patron of their desert home had not forsaken them yet.

She nodded simply when he spoke; a solemn, soundless reply to a grave remark, but as he turned from her for the first time she could recall, the Oracle took a muffled step forward to reach her softly blowing nose closer. “Don’t hide from me Midas...” She cooed sensitively, unobtrusively, feeling a burden not quite the same compressing her own pulsing vessel. The mare’s eyes held little hope, no false happiness like she had worn so often before- these struggles were different; they were not vain, selfish grievances tainting sourness through her brittle mind. Their family, friends, and those closest to the heart were being ripped from life- she could only assume as much given the unsightly nature of what they were now to look at and listen to. The memory of those wraiths- the detached eyeball dangling gruesomely from a hollowed socket upon its rope-like artery; the repulsive spluttering, slop expelled with each hacking cough; the rotting flesh hanging agape and filled with engorged maggots. The young mare shuddered.

The level of her worry seemed impossible given the foolish, arrogant character which had dabbled so recklessly through a lifetime past, grazing in and out of misfortune and trouble. Had it really been just over a year ago? Africa was not that child now though, and she saw through the pensive gaze of an Oracle the rundown walls of The Gallant, who it seemed could bear the aching burden of his load no longer.

She was not so ignorant like the rest- she cared more deeply, observed more closely and felt more strongly; she knew a broken heart, because hers still lay scattered across the icy doormat by the Basin’s front porch. The one-winged Pegasus had made it her specific duty to learn and understand those folk whom shared her home. Without magic she could not force Midas to confide- she wished not to further trouble him regardless, nor push him away. So instead of luring the hurt from an unwilling tongue she stood quietly with him; wishing at least that the calm of this room might wash a small window of respite into his sullied world.

Cloaked in sparkling feathers which reflected the night sky lost; Silas’s quiet violet eyes met the startling aqua gaze of the Phoenix- they were opposites entirely. She was fashioned, as though, by the broiling beams of the sun, bejewelled with eyes replicating the brightest of daylight’s warm hours; and he was shroud in the deepest gloom of a moonless night, accented only by cool twilight hues and the winking shimmer of the stars. Never the less, the pair were together descendants of magnificent avians; fabled creatures that were seldom seen and scarcely understood. Silas felt for Fina now, and the hushed croon of his empathy danced smoothly amid the soft rumble of the underground waterfall to find her.


[ooc: I tried to word this carefully so as not to presume she could read him ;) I know she can’t. If you want me to change it to respect his secretiveness more, I am very happy to]

Africa

There was no verbal enchantment she could weave to numb the ache of his mind- she knew that effortlessly; no bandage she could offer would patch back together the shards of his broken heart- but the Oracle could tread carefully among those pieces, and mind they did not shatter beyond repair. Despite his reluctance, she wanted to make it her duty to cradle so tenderly his vulnerability while the shell crumbled away to expose the raw truth beneath; she wanted to be there for one whom had been that pillar of strength and endless inspiration, no matter how scattered and reckless her behaviour had been. If he could not release the crippling weight of stress pent up in that skull upon the shoulder of a friend, Africa would offer him the ears of an impartial counsellor; her profession, in a very loose sense, or someone those she served as the Sun God’s representative could turn to and trust on a whim.

Regardless of the manner of any revelation, the innermost bounds of Midas would be respected honourably and kindly.

Again he drew from the earnest grip of her worried, creamy eyes and she allowed him the luxury of that space. He stood close enough still in the vast forest-like chamber and the familiar scent of him (without the fond residual dust of their home) flurried into her lungs with each passive inhale. Africa did not tether him, she had not the brute strength to force him to stay (she would never insist); but he did not flee from her concern either.

She had not the silken qualities of her dream-weaving mother’s delicately clever tongue, nor did she hold the capacity at such a young age to understand truly, the price of the loneliness Midas spoke of. The Sun God had however, considered Africa worthy enough for this herd to turn to, talk to and seek counsel from and although she had not felt during the first of their meetings a glowing sense of imperial satisfaction for that choice he had made, she was never discouraged- she trusted that her soul was, or would soon enough be, fitted to such obligation; such privilege. Her Lord’s ability to foresee the road ahead was enough encouragement to keep her focus. To comfort misery and share mental burden absolutely seemed more natural, as she lingered in the cave-mists with the painted stallion, than thrusting feeble attacks at him without any will. The gift of a true Oracle streamed through her veins though, and it seemed inevitable that she should be so drawn to her friend now, when all his walls were failing.

“I’m braver than loneliness.”

Africa had clung onto many memories in recent times, and for that reason her own heart still twinged constantly with bitterness and self-loathing. She knew only the form of loneliness which had been caused by those haunting recollections of a twisted, macabre past; those which had driven her into the solitude of late, where she preferred only the sullen company of herself, her dutiful bonded and the constancy of the silent fire. The worst part of holding so tightly to memories she felt, was not the pain, but the isolation caused by them. Memories needed to be shared; unloaded- philosophical advice from a weakling hypocrite. Even if his was not quite the same, that feeling of emptiness was more than debilitating. Receptive eyes followed the stray of his eerie gaze, lingering patiently when they could hold on no longer. She could not find a smile to dress the sincerity of her care and so the Oracle stood unpretentiously by him.

Africa

It was not easy to witness the complete annihilation of strength, confidence, and perhaps most heartbreakingly, the destruction of an identity. The painted stallion’s composure crumpled beneath decaying grief, and the mare clothed in puddled grey felt emotion bulge in the base of her throat- engorged and painful; though this tumour was not hers to bear. Her soft, cloudy-white complexion furrowed quietly as concern began to filter through her patient, caring expression, and her pensive stare parted from him respectfully as he withdrew his focus and placed it some place further away. Midas’s calm, virile voice was tortured, anguished, and Africa fought hard to not personalise the mangled mess of thoughts and words- not to turn them into her own regrets, nor harbour their bitterness (no matter how much loyalty chewed at her conscience).

Throughout the months (more than a years’ worth now) shared as siblings of Dragon’s Throat, the young mare had sought not to finger out the details of this stallion’s private life; the social circle which graced him with their respect; those role models that held so tightly his marvellous attention; the children whose ambition was to follow in the steps of their gallant father; the blessed lover who filled out his world, shared his bed and safeguarded his heart. Of course she had wondered about this all. Often after she had first joined this herd (when adolescence had warped the reality of her own feelings into some kind of brain-numbing infatuation); with no other familiar face to distract her during the saturating loneliness of night, Africa had let loose the vivacity of her childish imagination. She had pondered at length his universe- no matter how farfetched the inaccuracy, and often placed herself feverishly in its centre.

Those days were long past…

The feelings had been pointless; a silly fantasy; they had been cast-off hopelessly. Silas now filled that void of friendlessness, and her heart (that notion of true love) had not been entrusted to anyone- yet.

The black and white king spilt those thoughts he had so bravely internalized; she could not deny his courage, the one-winged mare knew quickly how much effort it took to protect those cared about from the true wrath of inner conflict. She recognized how quickly those balls juggled could fall… Pale yellow eyes were shut as thick black lashes meshed softly together; she considered those spoken of musingly, wondering if she had ever crossed paths with those carrying his blood. She prayed for his daughter, silently asking her glorious Lord to place his care upon them all; for Hototo and Cera- she remembered the sandy pale colt’s face vaguely, though he had not been seen for a very long time.

Still she listened unwaveringly, lean ears quivering as they worked to absorb all given; motionless as she remained with Midas in the underground forest gifted as their refuge. Her mind began to craft the image of a mare, a creature as lovely as she was apparently cruel; a body laced with pure, sun-glow gold (no doubt breathtaking from the view of he whose very gaze pooled the same hue), and wings dove-white to compliment. She could only imagine something so endowed and glorious winning the attraction of him- being worthy. She remembered through sinking confidence the less than satisfied quirk in the Sun God’s expression when he had first (and last) laid his regal gaze upon the new Oracle- a creature as bleak in appearance and charm as the weather her coat reflected. Those vivid, coloured feather’s now adorning her locks, she realised grimly, were given by the God to smarten that which was aesthetically poor- that was why he wanted her wing restored.

The illusion of Ktulu, of beauty beyond her reach, dissolved as the stallion’s frayed voice broke apart, failing into the waiting grip of silence suspended around them.

The question he asked then, it was rhetorical; she could not know why those he loved felt so inclined to abandon- those she had ever felt the pang of emotion for had been out of reach, forbidden. Africa wondered privately if such was the common habit of relationships- if abstinence and faithfulness were just cunning lies to paint better the fancy, sought-after misconception of love.

Again the trail of melancholy and morose words was severed- but instead of drawing breath to struggle on like he had now so many times, Midas sank physically; the bow of his proud, mane-sheathed neck slumping desolately, chin sagging beneath a face which was wrought with much hurt and grief. Trembling lips moved then involuntarily, to press against the split of black and white dressing his shoulder, and the quiet flare of velvet nostrils breathed compassion and hope against that which was so damaged. With eyes still closed, the Oracle began again to pray silently- this time for the friend she cared so gravely about.

“Midas…”

The tender note of her hushed voice seemed to fill the forest around them after a small while of just standing in silence. She had not wings to brave the darkness outside; Africa feared the wraiths, and was much too afraid to leave these impenetrable walls. Her bond with Silas was not yet sound enough to relay thoughts and visions clearly- she could not search for Hototo or Cera without first endangering herself. The reservation was selfish, but not imprudent; many moments of that thoughtless sort of stupidity marred her past already. She could not go back… there was nothing she could do. There was nothing productive she could offer him, so she stood simply in that silence which had embraced much of their union and rested her warmth and energy (though that was not particularly vigorous either), against him; her cheek sent to lay delicately against the feathery blanket of his wing.

Africa

What madness had swept through this population?

…Branding hearts once so supple; so tender, with the cold hardness of stone. Minds that had strength enough to pillar entire herds were shrivelling with sickness and sorrow, decrepit shades of bitter denial, hopelessness- a far cry from their former glory. Creatures who for years had radiated confidence and resolution, were questioning their ability; their integrity and loyalty. Change had swept bitterly cleansing winds through Helovia, even before this darkness; this plague… Friends and family; mentors and legends, all perspective had been skewed so terribly, and it seemed that heartache remained the greatest consequence. None had been spared by the turn of time’s natural evolution.

Midas didn’t shy from her kindly, comforting advance. Innocence iced her intentions, and while she lingered she could not help but wonder what horrors would unfold upon them all next. Experience whispered cruelly through her mind, promising that the worst was yet to descend- that even the suffering they had seen would be magnified. When Africa had been taken by the Unicorns of the Basin, she had felt overwhelmingly that fate lurked in the shadow of her step; that the hungry appetites of those horrible monsters would see swiftly to her end- just like they had Sinhue. Perhaps that would have been simpler actually…
Instead, as though the choking responsibility of her herd-sister’s death had not been torture enough, Alan had crushed the brittle structure of her wings to imprison her; to cage that which should stay flighted and free. The meekest of spirits had been taken prisoner in the unkindest fashion imaginable.

She could not help the stirring of painful memories (not even the worst), and when finally creamy eyes were shed of their cover, a glassy stain had been set across their shining surface.

Violent guilt twisted her stomach then, and her face was pulled from his grim warmth rapidly. How could she be so vile, standing there right then, propping one so fragile with naught but the very legs of treason and corruption themselves. A low hum; a sound fraught with fault, but so desperate to comfort rumbled through clenched teeth after he spoke again. Cursed with scarring and disability- “a fair price to pay…” she had admitted to her Lord. Africa could hardly believe she had been so arrogant, pulling Midas’ anguish into the open. What right had she to pretend her worth, her reason to nurture those ailing among his herd? She was a blight in their middle; cancer. She could not forgive herself.

Silas stirred the second his beloved withdrew- she was frail he knew, and always he feared the day which would unearth all those buried memories and regrets. He had been there to bind back together the fragments of her soul; piece by piece, restoring a pitch of sanity which would at least see her web back into mainstream life and her home. It had taken months of rehabilitation, wielding amnesia like a weapon; re-writing the structure of a personality he had known for barely a season. The work had been painstaking but worthwhile, and each day that passed them by in that cave; every moment now that she was able to climb beyond those blemishes marring mind and soul, was a success- a gift. An unsettled murmur slipped through tiny nares, and sharp violet eyes shifted to examine the fresh tension rippling lines beneath the veil of her silky cloak.

‘Not now…’

A lonely wing’s splay of mottled feathering ruffled with discontent beneath its cover, restlessness moving through the corpse upon which it was clasped, like famine through the desert. Her eyes which had reflected so earnestly care and empathy began to glaze with reserve, and the skin surrounding prickled and flushed with unhinged culpability. The web of lies would unravel eventually; she felt weight like never before, crippling her; rampaging like a swollen river through her body- and just as furious. She did not feel loneliness- Africa felt the icy hand of alienation wrap around her throat. It was a feeling entirely different. Lean legs motioned backwards clumsily, though with not the purpose to abandon him like those of his true kin. They trembled with fear and trepidation, drawing away from him the threat of her harmful existence; as though any second to come would see him stricken by the manifestation of her so well (until now maybe) concealed dishonesty.

Suddenly she was craving isolation; for the cave to open beneath and swallow her away into oblivion.

The whisper of experience was right; she was the worst to come…

Africa

For how many days had this nightmare, this cruel reality and the macabre scars laid upon her sweet-natured soul, haunted her very existence. The memory of all which had happened; the ghost white mare, the long foreboding journey north, that precarious ice-slick mountain pass through which Hell’s frozen basin gaped- for so long she had presumed such to burn not blow with bitter winds. How wrong she had been. The demonic population who thrived in that pit, held no honour, no humility, nor heart. They had proven their unkindness; ruined the belief and trust which had straddled her short life’s path. Those Unicorns had marred a heart with guilt and blinding paranoia. They had filled her mind with self loathing and her body with pain. It was to be a slow decay of the brightest spirit, the slide from innocence into quicksand shame.

They were here now, in this cave... this Sanctuary.

Africa had fought and fought- even now, as Midas’ strange eyes struggled, she battled the crumble of her own resolve to bear still a little longer, that which he needed to purge.

A hurt which she could never have imagined possible; emotion which she had never believed to exist, the wrench of her own heart- still worse than any anguish lain upon its tender thud before. He did not hide it from her like always he had previously, and the reality of his mortality struck her conscience like the blade of a knife. For the entire time their paths had intertwined through the unpredictable course of life, Africa had gazed upon him with wondering, starry-eyes; captivated by his strength both physically, and the tender resolve of his impeccable mind. The population seemed to sway as he passed, whispering of truth and valour into the soft arms of the breeze so that it might carry his legend for all of eternity. The Gallant...

Perhaps her impression had been a little fanatical. It had been an important inspiration nonetheless.

The pained furrows etching the remains of a valiant facade turned as she withdrew in a trembling mass- Africa could hear in the ruined void of her mind, the rattle of bones upset as the earthquake of her own emotion began to rumble angrily through her core. She didn’t want to leave him like that; her morality writhed between the desolation of her friend and the grim revelation that perhaps she had actually already undermined him; pulled the last soil from the grave his downtrodden form balanced above. She could not have known how old that warning of Kri’s now was; the sound of its menacing message echoed still constantly (her voice, her stare; the wicked mischief that had threaded Sinuhe’s plan prickled the fine hair along her spine. Africa felt so bitterly cold and alone; lost again, beneath drifts of relentless northern snow- wishing her bones to bleach there, where no Pegasus would dream to look. Where she had deserved to gasp the last of life’s breath alongside the sister she had failed.

She would have preferred the weight of Midas’ conviction ten times over; she could have shouldered the brunt of his crumbling for an eternity, should not have the burden of her own lies fallen so heavily between. His voice stumbled, trailing the suddenness of her heartless retreat, though she could do naught but shatter internally, desperation binding her own tongue into grim silence. She had abandoned him in the weakest of his moments.

For the first time in a long time, her eyes began to burn as tears swelled across their stony exterior. The Gallant’s appeal drew trembling lips forward with hesitant, hot breath spewing from their middle; the fine long whiskers bristled as trepidation warred so viciously with her quest for solitude and privacy. It was a battle she could not win, and although dogged shoulders clenched to keep her mass from returning to him, the brittle remnants of her voice broke free. “I did something terrible- to you, to our herd.” Fear seeped into the downward flinch of her weak expression. This was so much worse than bringing a grulla Unicorn into their midst. She drew a long breath. “Two Orangemoons ago, I went missing. I broke the rules and ventured into our enemy’s hand.” Africa knew she could not stay to ease the loneliness of a man who was among those she had forsaken (even if it meant the last of the dagger should sink); not without giving him the opportunity to turn her foolish heart, or what had been so unwise in the past, from his sight first.

“The sorrow and regret; this guilt has taxed me for so long, but I can’t carry it any longer. I want to tell you what I have done...”

She reached then, impulsively, and lips fumbled to find an individual feather; to pull it from her lone wing and let it fall away to wreck among the moss and mushroom carpet beneath.

Africa

"Alright…"

Her body stood ridged; a soul cast in the marble case of her wrongdoings, unable to break from the gruesome grip it maintained around her life. Neck slouched dismally as though pressed low by the very weight of it all, but the muscles within were taut, wrought with the stress emanating through pale, nervous eyes. She had never feared this stallion; never thought him so truly intimidating that he could not be approached- it was his unhappiness now though, and that she had clutched this secret close now for so long, which made the process so grave and terrifying; so difficult to begin. Africa had never been well known for her timeliness; but still plagued by guilt, the young grey could not fulfil the role impressed upon her while the burden was still carried- especially the privileges of a friend.

“I feared the Resolute terribly.” She began towards the beginning- round about the time of the meeting two Orangemoons ago in which had Kri conveyed to them all an ominous warning. News about the racist Unicorns of the north had been brought with the return of one of their brother’s (unbeknownst to the freshest face in the herd, Africa), and directions had been issued to travel always in pairs and not stray far north; to be on guard constantly and report missing family immediately. A crushed grimace wrinkled the velvet soft snip between her nostrils- so many failures, so early on.

“She held a meeting a long, long time ago now to tell us of planned domination, genocide and racism- that we should be wary of the Aurora Basin Unicorns.” A long breath was taken, though it helped little to clear the thoughts strangling her clarity. “Strict instructions were given, and I remember them still. Honestly, I had every intention of obeying; I had barely been a part of the herd a week, and the last thing I wanted to do was sour my reputation.” Above every detail of her life; the great experiences, the gravity of lessons learnt and even the silly moments which had caused her heart to flutter, every minute second of that Orangemoon was chillingly fresh upon her memory. Each step which had paved the path towards the mightiest of falls, was as perfectly clear as those scorching summer nights so loved, back home in the desert.

Through gritted teeth, she continued, and cautiously her feeble eyes rose to find the progress of Midas’ view, should that be written across his features as obviously as the pain caused by the loss of Ktulu and his children. “That very night I met another of our kin; her name was Sinuhe… (Africa had no clue that the eerily white mare had been among them less time than herself- family was family, and the inexperienced grey wanted only to please) … and she wanted me to go with her, north I mean; she told me of a plan to trick the very Unicorns we had been warned to avoid. I promise, Midas, I tried to tell her that we shouldn’t but she wouldn’t leave the idea alone and I couldn’t let her go off alone- we had to travel in pairs!

We left in the middle of the night. I didn’t know what else to do.”

That journey had been the longest she had ever made; filled with worry and fault, Africa remembered how lead-like her legs had felt.

“We made it into the mountains by the following evening, and night had fallen already as we’d made our way along a narrow cliff path into the forbidden territory. It was alright for Sinuhe… she was a Unicorn and figured dressing herself in the snow of that region might secure a cunning disguise. I stood out like a desert’s wildflower. Her theory was wasted anyway; I should have known their doorstep…” She shook her slender skull, resenting the oversight; the ridiculousness of it all. “They were waiting for us- four Unicorns from the Basin. I circled above for a long while, while our sister goaded them on the ground. I wanted to leave, but to abandon family seemed the ultimate crime. I had no idea the extent of what was about to happen.

It was terrible…”

The dappled Oracle’s eyes could hold back the flood of tears no longer, and heavy troughs soon formed down the length of her bony face. Although these events constantly haunted her, Silas had never been offered insight; he had never been allowed to know what had happened during that time before he found her. A comforting croon rumbled inside his chest, and the swarthy Roc huddled close against her warmth. He understood not the language of her tongue, but those flashing fragments of vision were ample for him to piece together the scenario as it was told to the painted stallion.

“My hoof tangled in vine, or canopy, I’m not sure which- but two of our foes, a stallion as black-hearted as the night of that trespass, and a bay mare, came forward and challenged us.

I fought so hard; for my life, for Sinuhe’s safety. But I am no warrior… and our struggle was futile. Some wickedness crept up from the Basin’s ice-slick earth and pulled me down as I tried to escape into the air. It was horrendous. The strength left my body, my lungs could find no oxygen, and I passed out- I think. Everything went black. When I woke, she was dead; her body just slumped lifelessly where she had fallen- should not I have perished also? Why would my life have been spared when I committed the same treason?” Her tone had risen, panicked as she relived those morbid moments when Deimos had unleashed his death magic to claim the life of their herd-sibling, and very nearly that of her own as well. Africa trembled horribly, unable to climb free of the pain which struck her now- again. It replayed so vividly in her mind, stinging her conscience and gnawing away her flailing composure.

There was so much more to tell. But she needed to break; had to find breath to fill gasping lungs.

Africa

The Gallant’s warm musty breath engulfed her suddenly; a touch offered, that was given all too frequently by herself, but felt upon receipt, as alien as the swirling darkness owning their frail world. Few ever returned to Africa that same gentle merciful empathy she gave so selflessly, so freely, and the taut wetted skin beneath his bump prickled wildly. The guilt-stricken mare sighed sombrely, pastel eyes burying themselves tiredly into the luminescent beauty of the room adjacent to where she stood hunched beneath the unravelling drama of her soap-opera life; she had never worked it towards such, not deliberately. Midas motioned with a gentle voice, suggesting reasonably that repercussions were as individual choices made, and the shuddering mare couldn’t help but nod- understanding demurely; humiliated all the while by those mistakes tarnishing her past.

Trembling lips were sent to retrieve another quill from its sleek, glossy bed without room for thought. The wing lifted obligingly from where it lay nestled in warmth against the right span of her clothed, dappled ribcage, the long black flight feathers along its lavish rim splayed in waiting. She sought none in particular and glassy, pained eyes roved between the bristling plumage blindly; leaving the art of selection to blunt, marble-white teeth. They fell casually upon their prey and beneath a tightening maw, pulled away a feather darker than the face of a summer storm in body- yet so intricately frosted along the rounded tip with contrasting snow-white. The jaw slackened and the wasted plume twirled to the wayside; abandoned, unseen and unfelt by its troubled keeper.

Midas went on to describe all too candidly how much more unkind their great world was, than it was perceived to be by the cool minds of their clan; of perhaps the vast majority lingering now, around them, she thought additionally to herself. The Endless Night though, and now this horrific sickness which had become ‘Helovia’s Darkest Hour’, had each tested by now, the populations confidence; though Africa still sought all solace by the bosom of the Gods and her faith swelled hopefully in their higher power. The convulsions; the wracking sobs which had overwhelmed her weeping core eased, and in their place flooded a new enormous fatigue. She figured that the unjust nature of life could easily be implied to the gold-wielding stallion also- had not he just exposed to her grief caused by the cruelty of fate? “Yes...” she agreed with a soft tone, unwilling to reignite his own furore for the sake of her own meagre pity.

Then, with another breath drawn and a mind less in tatters than how it had begun the last time (that was not to say the memory hurt any less), Africa continued…

“I was turned over by the black Unicorn stallion to be the prisoner of the bay. She broke my wings, trapping me in the Basin, and left me more or less to wallow in the gravity of my mistake.” Maybe that long time forced upon the dappled prisoner to dwell, had been the greatest cause of her self-loathing; the weight of inescapable introspection layering corrosive guilt and grief across a gentle, breaking heart. She shrugged literally at the fleeting thought, unsure.

“Do you remember the black and white stallion that you fought only days after we’d first met?” Africa paused then, glazed gaze too tired to find any reaction betrayed by his ebony expression; the haunting gold, depthless gaze within it. After minutes she continued, “He was there; was one of them.” Apparently she had not foreseen his affiliation before that fateful time- his presence in that hell-hole had come as quite a shock. “The prize that he’d sought that day in the cliffs above the Foothills was claimed thrice over- he is the one who took my wing from me. What a trophy when all he had wanted to begin with was one lousy feather.” A scoff breezed between frowning lips, and she shook away the heavy stallion’s arrogant face from her mind. The tears had all but dried from her raw, reddened eyes; soggy cheeks all that remained of the emotion unleashed so pathetically.

Silas had folded comfortingly his small feathered body to warm his beloved as she’d spilt the truth of her history to the pleasant black and white stallion; unavoidably he too had been inundated by all those memories as they had tumbled back to the forefront of her mind, and held a much firmer understanding now- he thought, of why she was so shy, cautious and insecure; why she had sought more and more the embrace of solitude through recent months. But he marvelled too at the still generous nature of her soul and that kindness that seemed relentlessly to exude, regardless of pain. He crooned delicately, softly, upon her silk-shroud spine with breast-feathers parted to wrap against her.

“I didn’t mean to…” the mild note of her voice cracked, “You have so much pain of your own. I’m sorry.” Africa felt so bitterly selfish and violently unconfident, but mustering together the relics of her tattered courage she lifted her the lead-weight of her chiselled, ashen face, so that a rueful glance might sink beneath the safety of a gaze which had always proffered inspiration.

Africa

Lips stained with dark smoky-grey stiffened at the sudden slip of his voice, deep and low. She nodded at its first mention, faithful eyes searching the illegible expression which had tightened the fine lines chiselling his dark face. Certainly the bottomless pits of gold upon it offered little insight into the churn of cogs and wheels in his mind- they were broader, perhaps brighter too after her rather untimely and morbid distraction from his own sorrow. Africa shifted; not awkwardly, not uncomfortably, and the cloudy feathers lining the rogue wing to her right prickled as an itch provoked by empty shafts and missing quills, began to irritate.

The words to follow instilled a mild level of reassurance- not that such was the responsibility of the black and white stallion, she knew.

Africa had not for one second found reason to blame Midas for the foul torture which had befallen her in the Basin (neither could she fault Sinuhe, although it was that snowy Unicorn’s foolishness which had led them both astray to begin with). Since the day he had fought to secure her safety and allow her the chance to flee in cowardly fashion, a podium had been set beneath him and always from then on, the feeble dappled fool had gazed with starry-eyes up at him. His bravery and selflessness had been something her young mind aspired to replicate, and perhaps part of that yearning had been cured- she thought little of herself, investing much time and emotion into the care of her kin instead.

Long coal tipped ears leaned thoughtfully towards him, her focus unwavering now; untouched since all that had been held so tightly and detrimentally against the throb of her breast now hung suspended like the stench of rot in a rainforest, in the air around them. There were no more secrets; no flailing guilt he did not know. She was grateful for the release he had allowed her, the sheer weight of her troubled past seemed now to be barely the faint breath of memories playing through her imagination; illusions that no longer held substance enough to warp and mar the kindness of her soul. Still, no smile felt comfortable and her ashen features remained without the glint of happiness once saturating. His crest sank, curling away his skull so that she could wallow beneath the light of his eerie eyes no longer, and the soft whiskers upon her twitching nose reached across instinctively to follow the withdrawal.

“I don’t miss it…” she fibbed gingerly, perceiving brazenly a shift in his mood and guessing innocently that the story of her wing’s parting had affected him, just as it seemed to bruise any other Pegasus who laid their eyes upon her naked shoulder. “… not anymore. Only the memory of those horrible days in the Basin was the burden I needed to vent- and the death of our herd-sister. Both are treasons I could no longer live with as a sister of the desert.” Worried eyes sought desperately to reconnect, the fatigue from rollercoaster emotions beginning to fray through the flinch of nerves beneath the dappled coat clothing her.

There was a period of silence then through which Silas reconnected his thoughts to sooth the growth of concern in the mind of his beloved. Like her, he knew not of words passing between the stallion and the Pheonix still perched amid the canopy of iridescent foliage; little attention had been spared while Africa’s grieving heart had called for his warmth. The young Zephyr clucked tenderly where he rested upon her and combed the slight parting of his sharp, hooked break through her thin, smooth coat beneath.

Fina launched from the branch and away out of the room in a soundless streak of light, and both Africa and her companion found their eyes darting along behind; drawn by the brilliance of that which had been lost when they had descended into these tunnels. The soft creamy eyes of the mare only returned when all trace of the beautiful creature had been lost, and they found between a series of surprised blinks, that delicate channels of gold were snaking through the light underworld turf towards those cast-off feathers which she had thought nothing, ever, about. The hue of Midas’ magic was a wonderful contrast to the bleak climate beneath the earth (having spent her Helovian life bathing in the glorious of the God of the Sun and his land, the frail glow in the room holding them was modest), and her curious eyes followed eagerly.

Like a phenomenon so intricate and exquisite that she could only equal to the blending colours of a gecko’s thin skin between changing backgrounds, her bland feathers were touched. Each in turn slithered beneath a sheath of vivid, shining gold- more beautiful than even a sun-drenched palomino, and Africa’s breath was snared even before the ascent into her clenched mouth.

They were lifted towards her, not by arms crafted of the sand from their cherished desert, but on fine strings of gold- and Africa blushed beneath the mask of her pale, slim hair and the forelock draped loosely above. His generosity seemed always to rise above any situation, and she respected him so terribly for it. She wondered as she admired the floating gilt-feathers if anyone had ever been so giving in return. Silently the grey resolved to pay back all these kindnesses bestowed, though the return of his intelligent words drew her out of that thought. “Please.” She answered humbly, noting wordlessly a sudden realisation that the wing still blessed upon her was a gift more than she had understood. For a moment the booming tone of the Sun God’s voice returned to cloud her mind- ‘Once you are ready to exact vengeance Oracle, and return to the skies, seek me out.’

Africa was nodding; both grateful for her friend’s gentle reasoning, and because now she truly realised the value of that conversation with her Lord when still they were contented in the Throat. He had not wanted her to hackle and feign courage, like she had done so ignorantly. Her long neck began to lower, the flatness of her cheek to turn so that the strings of Midas’ creation might be accommodated better; so that his metaphor (that was certainly how it was received) might hang with the other feathers given to her more heavily and be a constant reminder of the wisdom imparted this day.

Africa