The cave, her own sanctuary, seemed to grow darker around them; ominously so.

High above, warm lamp-light wavered nervously as the cold breath of betrayal began to swell with the stench of her stress like choking fog through the subterranean rotunda. The merciless, wicked fingers of guilt began to pry apart the fleshy walls of her breast; the vulnerability of a heart already cracked, exposed for the taking. Africa had done him wrong and no matter how tightly the weight of her long, black lash-rimmed eyelids clenched, no matter how fretfully her blunt, marbled molars grated together, and regardless of the strain pressing the long heavy length of storm-grey ears back; the rash mare could not now steal back those damaging words.

His apology (the sickening vibration of its undertone curdling with the acid in her stomach), was laced with what she could only imagine to be some perverted type of remorse, and so too did it bear upon its callous spine, blunt scepticism and fresh, boiling distrust.

Still hiding away in the blackness of her tight-eyed world, Africa grimaced regretfully, and the mood engulfing them began to turn dramatically. She could not yet feel the pierce of his dagger-gaze; could not bear to fail beneath the glare of hate and anger- that which must echo now surely, behind the tawny-brown pits of his eyes. She was a rotten weasel (even before this moment, cowardice and deceit had trimmed the smooth grace in her stride), a reality she could not ignore. It seemed her duty to turn upon those she treasured, those she needed; and break them, drive them away.

The cold musty air seemed to thin as her escalating pant struggled to find its fill, and Africa could both feel and hear the drum of the crumbling vessel in her chest, drowning her mind. It was not so loud though to overwhelm the sound of Windwalker’s tirade as it drove suddenly through the rising barrier of resistance around her and on into the frailty of her awareness. His tone was low- frightening. Panicking eyes were thrust open. She could not believe the wrongness of his view; could not understand why now he was tarnishing those moments of closeness they had shared. Bile rose into her throat and she gasped in astonishment, steaming tears glazing the melancholy in her gaze. She had thought for so long that those ducts had dried and hardened; that they were quite incapable now of pouring rivers of raw emotion. The mare was wrong, the bulwark gave way.

Hatred writhed as his repulsed eyes switched between her own, crushing her meek, brittle spirit with its formidable weight as he continued...

The concept of love, the virtues and fabled warmth of its touch, were no longer something Africa wanted anything to do with. It had been spoiled beyond repair, ruined before she had even been swayed by its glorious affection. Love was a double edged sword, and its affliction was apparently far more gruesome than anything she cared to fold her heart beneath. The word as it laughed vulgarly through her core was filthy and abhorrent. Even those friendships (few they were), forged with long-suffering care and compassion seemed sour now. The very thought of civilization and its oversensitivity; of small talk, facades and philanthropy made the Oracle suddenly nauseous, and she withdrew from him hastily into the shell which had been so painstakingly shed after her malicious imprisonment over one year ago.

They were all too wretched- narcissistic and spiteful, and her gentle-nature could weather their storm no longer.

He turned from her as though to magnify (she thought) still further, all the loathing he had unleashed, and a gushing wind suddenly began to whirl around the room. Africa’s sweat laden mane lifted to dance and twirl in fiery drifts as the air circled faster and faster, trapped between those glowing etchings which had witnessed the destruction of two tender minds. Silas rose angrily into the vast mouth of the convex ceiling, casting down upon the wingless stallion glaring umbrage and searing hate; that which his placid beloved had not the heart to embrace. With each furious wing-beat the world which they shared began to spin more rapidly, leaving Windwalker behind to fumble through the mass of fractured amity and shattered emotion, which now lay about his hooves.

Quicker and quicker... ‘Leave...’

This time his magic did not splinter or dither with crude inability, and Africa broke from her prison there by the Wall of History. She might have appeared only as a shaft of light; a streak or blur as she fled, but wrapped in the safety of her bonded’s power, the Oracle left Windwalker standing there- alone.

Africa