All concept of time; the sun’s perpetual dance with the moon, and the familiar undulating tides of the murky black ocean which skirting the desert, had been lost. It had been such a long while since even the bold adventure north to bring home stray souls from the brink of the Helovia- simply; she had not the courage, energy, nor confidence to face that sickness plaguing the land and those undead wraiths which had been claimed by its cloud.

The cloak which hugged always around the rippling roll of smooth dappled shoulders, no longer held that film of rust-red powder; it was tinged instead now with must and mildew buried for many centuries, with this ancient stone castle’s memory, so far down, beneath the earth. So too had the scent of home vanished from her coat; only the cold dank half-light washed over her here. The bright parrot feathers given to her by the Sun God (at the same time as the satchel strapped tightly below her left elbow); interwoven and secured tightly into the oily threads of both her mane and tail’s glorious length, added some contrast to the drear of the cave. The resilient, harmless flames granted by their land’s patron, twisting and licking around her kin’s tread, and hair, were also a remarkable highlight. Certainly in the underworld, the folk of Dragon’s Throat were for the time being quite dazzlingly in this respect.

Africa missed the company of her sacred fire terribly.

Most of her time during the stream of endless, unbroken time in the cave, had been spent against the face of the old, inscribed wall. The shimmery depictions were fascinating, and so easily could she lose herself and her thoughts to those stories portrayed (Midas had mentioned them to be of the Gods; of Helovian ancestors who roamed long, long ago). Although her heart had been soured and her mind turned quite bitter, the Diviner’s vibrant imagination had not diminished at all. Dressing the engraved walls of the rotunda was the warm waltz of flickering firelight- and it was perhaps this in particular, that compelled her to remain.

Though small and well beyond her reach, the ceiling fire-lamp was the closest thing available to the shrine of her Lord, for her to focus her devotions upon and worship.

Fatigued eyes were pulled from the wall, and the worn Oracle moved beneath the cover of the light to bask and be comforted. She had not slept well, if at all, since the transition from the desert and though loveliness still shroud her shapely, elegant form, the young creature felt old and drawn. Silas clucked gently where he stood nestled cosily amidst the plume of his star-lit feathers in the dip of her cloaked back. There was little he could offer his beloved; aside from unwavering support and encouragement, and regular gifts of food gathered from the Glowing Room.

For once few thoughts were rampaging through the space inside her refined skull, but that did not lessen the surprise of company when it fell upon her unexpectedly; the voice of the familiar stallion as he called out her name. Windwalker came to stand beside her with fresh confidence that almost made her blood curdle- she could not fault its existence; would not defy his peace now, but the gruesome detail staining her mind was not easily forgotten. Africa could not tell if the stench of his blood filled her nostrils now, or whether it was the haunting images of his self-mutilation which tarnished his otherwise innocent, company. "Hi Wind..." She answered softly, curling her wrinkled lips into a warm, but tired smile to greet him. Their voices were barely loud enough to resonate, and eerie silence fell as a heavy blanket upon them afterwards. Silas was fairly unbothered by this particular stallion’s presence and snuggled his small head further into the splay of his downy, feathered collar.

The wingless stallion spoke on then, and the mare’s silent stare wandered freely through his black, solemn expression- the words sank easily through forward reaching ears, but even as he paused mid-sentence, Africa could find no words of comfort wetting her flaccid tongue. Sadness welled through her pale, gentle eyes as he turned from her; he was not the first to do so recently, and it pained her to watch the suffering overwhelm their dignity. He pulled air into his lungs though, the breath sharp and loud (perhaps more so because the situation developing grew strained and awkward), and tried with unmasked effort to continue.

So often Windwalker used the word love, and every time her mind cringed unhappily- not because it hurt, nor for the sake of any other who might have stilled her beating heart. The Oracle knew not the meaning of the word bequeathed by so many; she was flattered because pure, hot emotion seemed to radiate around its touch, and heartened that both Wind and Silk seemed so warm; but she could not return to them something which existed not in her own core. When the other stallion’s name was mentioned, a choking bulb caught in the grim depths of her throat- she did not interrupt through; it seemed the gush of words now flowing had been hard enough to conjure in the first place. The stallion whose face wore strange satanic tattoos was lost; taken, she was sure Wind had witnessed the stark truth of his exile from trust- from life. Perhaps jealousy had blinded him- but she never considered that.

The hurt in his eyes never lifted to meet the empathetic caress of her own. Apparently love was crippling, debilitating and dispiriting- the Oracle felt awful. She wanted to cradle him with false promises and hope, but she had not that blackness in her heart to lie.

"I…" She started unhappily when the last of his voice had run dry. "I will always be there for you too. Surely you know that." With his face finally turned her way, she felt a sudden weight in her stomach; nausea perhaps, like suddenly she had the weight of someone’s whole happiness balanced upon her withers. She wanted desperately to submit to the cowardice surging through her veins and severe the bind of their gaze. "Wind, I…" Africa seemed suddenly to be overcome, maybe like he had before; the words she needed to give simply would not assemble.

The Zephyr shifted uneasily upon her back; her confusion, the wild spin of muddled emotion, spilling rapidly through his mind. Shining violet eyes monitored the stallion with expanding wariness, and a low rumble vibrated deep beneath this breast. ‘Settle,’ she eased silently- turning her attention for the briefest of moments, though he could not while she ached so.

"I have never loved anyone. I am young; the yolk has barely been flaked from my skin. Surely such feelings… take years longer than this to establish… I'm so sorry." She wanted so dreadfully to comfort him with tenderness and compassion; she cared gravely for him- she loved the closeness of their friendship. "What does this mean?" Africa was overwhelmed beyond belief by the prospect of this word declared. She knew not what could happen now that he knew her perspective- she was afraid to touch him, to nurse his wounded emotion the best way she knew how. A wave of exhaustion glazed her eyes- her body trembled anxiously, and her mind began to crack as pent up stress and guilt mushroomed still further.

Africa