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