For a long while Africa lay listlessly beneath her steadfast companion’s tender embrace.

She knew not that he was truly there though and lonely delusions of a future without his grace were the first to pass through her numbing mind; shame fuelled them and her heart thundered frightened remorse. The tarnished silver path to ruin looked bleak and the snow still fell heavily all around, but it seemed to fit her flawlessly. Prints of those who had failed along before her slipped snugly around each sinking step she took, and sorrowful eyes, red-stained behind glass, gazed longingly to the smouldering face of the sun for forgiveness. She tried to turn, to retreat the way she had come, except mirrored maze walls had been raised all around her. There was no escape for the wicked and when she cried out imploringly to any that might be near - Help me! Help me, Silas! ...all that answered was the shallow echo of her own despair.

I should just give in? She begged wretchedly, is this the end?

But the metal across which she dithered hardened suddenly so that her hooves no longer fitted into its surface. The mirror came alive; figures of those who had passed through her life materialised one by one as the walls below inched nearer. Her mother, father, bones perhaps bleached now on the rocky tors of distant Nyorm, and Emelda was ever smiling down upon her with whispering lips, a message lost to the pound of Africa’s fragile heart. Mother, are you not mad? ...but those wise old eyes were fading too quickly as another strengthened in their stead. It was a Basilisk, the raving creature from the woods, and whiskers trembled as she remembered the egg which had been abandoned – the result of cruel manipulation, the very first treason maybe, of a pure hearted girl.

I’m sorry... She was sobbing, stricken with grief as she watched what could only be a portrayal of how very quickly her soul had spoiled. Tears streamed from burning eyes, yet as her skull sank she found only pools of crimson blood in the pristine snow. She gasped and jumped back, thighs colliding with the frigid surface of isolation. No! Shrill and panicked, the one-winged’s voice resonated deafeningly around her prison, and the cunning grin of a girl she had once followed to death’s doorstep now beamed vindictively down upon her. It was a memory purged already, laid out like filthy laundry; forgiven, forgotten, and the moon-white Unicorn vanished forever more.

The air in that tiny mirrored room began to warm unexpectedly and mist no longer plumed from her flared nostrils; Africa pulled in a deep breath and her lungs did not burn! What is... she began to question, but before there was not any time to consider as the room began to turn around her. First feathers still blacker than night began whirl and she felt dizzy, nauseous, where she stood in the centre, teetering across trembling knees; then pale ones joined and with them gold, all together dancing to the tune of a wind she could not hear nor feel. She felt weightlessness, and her memory of all that had played out seemed so distant. Africa realised that she could no longer feel the hard floor beneath her hooves - there were no longer any walls locked around her!

Cream-toned eyes burst open and shining black pupils pinned cautiously.

The world had changed (she thought initially). The snow had melted and Tallsun’s warmth embraced her – everything nearby seemed touched by the burning globe... It had all been a dream! A heavy blanket lay across her body and she struggled for a moment beneath its weight before sliding free and stretching her wings upwards and outwards. It had not been the soundest rest, nor as long as probably needed, but she felt all the better. It was when Silas’ hooked beak found her feathers to preen that she suddenly realised her error – where was she? A surge of adrenaline and Africa felt the need to shape-shift, though it took less of her this time, and in only seconds she had morphed back into the body of a one-winged mare. She still looked gaunt and unwell, but a flickering flame of hope had ignited within.

The faintest of smiles curled tenderly her lips when she recognized her company - Midas, Silas, Fina and perhaps their cousin who she regarded curiously but silently. She thought the stallion to still be sleeping and so settled for a small time across lean, quivering legs by the wall of the humid cavern (she could not have known the true reason for its existence), and began to hum softly, maybe even wishing to lull them all back to life.

Dim shade fell heavily beneath the scrawny shape of the mare as she hovered patiently above cold damp earth. The luminous fire rising ever more potently along her drooping neck doubled the light radiating from Fina, though Africa’s was without heat; it was harmless, just a constant reminder of her spiritual felony. Only now did she begin to regret its dancing, flickering existence and as she waited with heavy eyelids for her friend to stir, the song resonating beneath the flesh of her breast was tinged with subtle melancholy. Yet another change blurring across the horizon – should even the sun rise across it again. The blackness choking her soul had lifted some, though still she felt cold, empty, consequences for leaving a life fashioned by the raw fingers, behind.

Hunger chewed painfully her stomach, but waves of nausea lingered still stronger. Africa turned her face right, neck craning sharply so that she might access the barbered, twisted quills left hanging from her only wing and her cheek touched against chilled stone. For a second lips fondled the straggly, spare plumage like always they might before pulling; but this time they worked to smooth and straighten and cleanse skin of caked blood that even the wet snow had been unable to shift. Thoughts turned to the bag, yet eyes sought not to find it – the cloak, the mask which she had tried in vain to wrap around herself in time, lay stuffed within. It was too easy to slither beneath and hide, to become someone else and be never accountable; Midas could never have realised her illness if only she had been dressed... But that was not how she wanted to live now, and the one-winged promised then to be rid of it soon.

Larynx stilled suddenly and the song dissolved.

A voice which she thought as smooth as rolling ocean waves – that which she craved evermore – caressed leaning ears, and brightening eyes turned to find his dim face. Joy that her scrawny appearance could not hope to express swelled throughout, and velvet nares fluttered first in response. “Yes,” she answered in spite of the ragged dappled pelt dipping slackly across both wither and hip; tatty hair clumped and tangled around twig and thistle – she was well now. Africa was home wherever Midas’ shadow fell. “I follow a fool’s destiny, I’ve said it before.” She sighed softly, wet smouldering forelock swinging like a stiff pendulum before her gaze as chiselled skull shook gently. “But I’ve decided to change that for good...” It was voiced aloud mainly for her own benefit – a solemn pledge though for both all the same that she would never again fall into this trap.

And then she glanced by Fina’s bright shape before softened, sunken eyes settled above his golden tattoos; the Gallant’s enchanting eyes seemed to beckon out the best of her, the truth in her heart, and she stepped nearer to maybe brush moist lips against his sagging wet mane. “Are you okay?” his loss had not slipped from memory, nor the cruel weather through which he must have brought them.

It heartened her greatly to hear that one so steadfast, resilient and sensible had walked also as a fool – even if the edges of his thoughtful gesture suggested humour. Perhaps he was just the company most needed.

After a time, Africa’s concerned, compassionate gaze slipped and pale eyes wandered beyond his lean face to a wall which was not smooth, cold or stone like the rest around them. His gaze had strayed also – she knew that he had discovered her ugly wing and the delicate tone of his question lingered about her like impassable fog.

Distracted conveniently but hardly ignoring, the one-winged mare turned to venture nearer, away in turn from Midas. Worn hooves scuffed silently along the moist earth as sooty knees groaned wearily, grinding beneath the weight of the frame above, and the empty follicles dotting her tatty, plucked wing tingled as intrigue expanded. Her fire’s glow lit up a small space, a gap though which cold air and fine powder slipped into the den and thin lips pursed to trace the length of it. A faint whistle greeted her ears before they swivelled back, guiding her attention; and flaming neck bowed as she glanced towards her friend with a feeble smile.

What else had they to talk about besides her transgressions...?

It isn’t like that, she scolded herself promptly then teased - “well I assumed this was your doing?” She looked to her quietly watching bonded and then around at their sanctuary, something like fake mockery dancing briefly through her expression.

Africa appreciated his care and concern, and in all honesty she felt not closer or more content speaking with any other she knew. The one-winged mare was all too aware of the countless blessings bestowed by him over the years and she was forever grateful – she felt suddenly like she had known him for a lifetime or more, and sighed heavily. “The Wildfire... He has returned and taken back his throne - you are aware?” She did not know if that was the case actually, but if any were to know the truth of the matter Midas the Gallant - brother of sand - surely would be able to enlighten her. “I can only guess Sohalia the Transcended stands there with him and that leaves no room for another... Cera is Diviner now and I can think of no man better suited. All other roles are filled.” Fraying thoughts leaked out as her disappointment churned just beyond reach of her tempted tongue. She couldn’t settle again as a peon in the kingdom she had worked so hard to grow – she had invested so much of herself over a great length of time, no matter how futile the effort.

Ampere had abandoned them without prior warning and the white queen had been absent for long periods after. Africa had been left to struggle alone for the most part, to prove her worth before a sceptical herd and a wary God. Those who knew of the Throat’s former glory were proud and reluctant - Cera, Hector (she imagined them all) and the lowly one-winged felt almost as though she had been set there to fail...

Dimpled chin flinched and her teeth tightened grimly together. “Dragon’s Throat is not the same without you Midas, I doubt you would even recognize it if ever you found reason to return...” she admitted ruefully, avoiding eye contact for that moment to guard against the guilt glassing over her eyes.

And then there was Silk, one who had pledged his whole existence to her, left the very earth she now sought sanctuary upon to both serve and love her. Africa was in many ways still a babe, just starting to crawl. Emotions, confusion, all were as fraught as pond-ice, and she had given the devoted leather wing stallion nothing but frigidness in return – a smile where necessary perhaps, and fluttery contributions of affection.

Was she afraid of commitment?

Silas knew the answer and his breast purred contentedly where he perched upon the ground.

She was a will-o’-the-wisp; untouchable, out of reach of the lonely, starving hearts that lusted after her... Windwalker had tried in vain also to tie down her wild soul, but she was a nymph gliding ever free of their binding chains. Curiously it seemed though, that whenever Midas’ path skewed from her view, Africa grew restless, reckless, and she was becoming all the more aware of this. “I left them all behind,” she revealed softly, turning back both eyes and body to find comfort again near his warmth. The Gallant’s presence gave her strength and she felt less inclined to cower beneath the blanket of her disgrace – he never seemed to judge her. “Silk, Sohalia, Sikeax... I just could not stay any longer. They know nothing of my whereabouts and for now I think that is best.” Her voice was timid though determined. She could not bear yet to imagine the scorn she was yet to suffer; the judgement and the frustration.

The anger...

“Will you have me here? I would not ride on the back of your generosity.” Mellow eyes warmed as they fell across his face. “I will work wherever you have need for me.”

Please...

Thick lashes blinked firmly together as she listened closely to all that he said.

It was strange that their voices did not echo in such a small space and she wondered inwardly if he noticed – if it were her imagination alone. The thick dull atmosphere all around seemed to choke any expression from his words (so she thought), and the weak humour that had tempted moods higher wasted away too quickly. She pined for it as a more serious, sombre feeling seemed to swell instead all around them.

Flames licking through her oil-slick mane began to waver uncertainly – or was she swaying?

Hope within weakened and apprehension began to escalate once more. Africa felt suddenly woozy, confused, and unsure about why finding Midas had so suddenly become the priority. Silas croaked and lifted from his bed nearby, eying cautiously the mare whose thoughts had swerved so drastically off course.

It pained her some to hear mention of Gaucho the Wildfire’s worry – perhaps there was a part of her that wanted them to be angry, to shun her and wish never for the return of a sister so poor. Would that not make her desertion all the simpler, so much fairer? It seemed Africa had done everyone a disservice on this occasion, and she felt a lead weight in her chest. Power and privilege had never been high among her desires...

She dallied above the stallion for a moment, hot breath lingering while buttery eyes searched the length of his two-toned form for any sort of justification. She wanted to touch him; sultry, steaming and real. “Thank you...” she whispered into the muggy silence instead; graciousness for the clemency he offered, that she had asked for – though she strained to find anything deeper than genuine hospitality. What was she expecting? Who was this man that lured her like a moth to the flame? Lungs filled to the brim and jaws sealed snug so that it could not escape; she turned again to that wall, to run lips by the gap and feel the bitter cold if it lingered on outside.

Was this still her sleeping?

Long limbs were restless and they fidgeted, pulling her from one side of the magic-built barrier to the other, and she began to wonder when this cave would begin to shrink around her, just like the mirrored cage before. Air erupted from flared nostrils and was sucked in again deeply – the wind outside was burning, freezing, and she jerked back startled.

Why was she so anxious?

A seed planted years before as only an implausible fantasy, had grown into something more beautiful than expected. It was new, frightening, and she fumbled helplessly beneath its pressure, not quite understanding.

Africa turned, surveying almost desperately the tight room and all who sheltered within it – the young iceberg white avian caught her eye, nestled impossibly into the fire of the Phoenix’s body. “Who is Fina’s nestling?” she asked unsteadily; not able to centre her turbulent thoughts in any one direction. “I...” Pausing, her eyes looked for his and her gaunt face was bewildered. “A murderer?”

What am I doing here? she begged.

... And with the tender embrace of claws against her hide came the response - You need him!

It was true Africa supposed. Silas was rarely wrong.

The mottled, one-winged mare considered her shrewd companion’s unexpected logic with a dipped chin and gentle sigh of resignation – perhaps though, she did not entirely appreciate its depth. She stilled; trembling dappled coat no longer flinched so furiously and panting breath slowed and steadied. Ordinarily the fickle grey might have sought to ease her tumultuous mind by ripping away feathers from her skin - refuge in pain, a measure of control, punishment and pure habit. For the second time in as many hours though she refrained (not that many quills remained to pull), and carefully, decisively, she shunned the scrambled, snarling thoughts in exchange for reality. Things were not as terrible as insecurity should have liked her to believe...

Others had worried for her safety, and never had that been her intention.

“Midas, I’m so sorry for worrying you.” Africa offered the tardy apology earnestly and fought back the rush of burning regret as it prickled all over her pale face. “I’d not heard rumour of such an awful crime or I would’ve made my whereabouts known to you. I just needed a break from my life and word of Gaucho’s return was too timely to ignore. Everyone expects something, everything... you know?” She paused, considering the words which would follow, but failing her desert family was probably public knowledge by now regardless; any fool could see that she, the Starry-Eyed, had not broad enough shoulders or brave enough resolve to bear the weight of a herd so glorious as Dragon’s Throat. “I... I felt trapped,” she continued, referring gently and modestly to the stallion that she had left behind. “... I don’t like to feel pressured, smothered...

That doesn’t feel right.”

Love. It was supposed to grow beyond infatuation and not wither instead, right? Ears switched uncertainly.

“Do you think wraiths have returned?” She asked Midas quickly; memory of half decayed, hungering monsters was yet to fade, and her wasted frame shrank warily back from the doorway. Wraiths stepped with supernatural speed and mindboggling agility - enough of both even to slip like only a whisper could through the gap above. She didn’t ask if Seele’s loss was a part of this crime for fear of wounding Midas any more – she couldn’t help but wonder though. “I’m so glad... that you’re alright too.”

A deep silence seemed to settle all around after the last of the Gallant’s soft, reassuring baritone vocals dimmed away to nothing. Depthless pools of gold returned at last from their shadowy host (she had followed for a short time), and her milkier gaze welcomed their touch with rising warmth and benevolence – that which for a long time had been drowned out by an ever increasing volume of fear and vacillation. Thick black lashes bowed decorously, half across her eyes and she smiled quietly as she reflected thoughtfully on times long past.

Faces began to whirl around them, a blur of spinning light and colour, and for a split second her eyes danced to view them. They moved fast and were barely recognizable, but as Africa glanced curiously back to discover her friend’s reaction, they began to slow; Midas seemed not to notice, his expression had not changed at all. Eyes pulled back tentatively to the wall, to a hazy face that looked all too familiar – young though, unscathed and jovial, with sparkling sandy eyes that beckoned for her mischievously. The image was frosty, inconsistent – it had existed in this world such a long ago. She couldn’t help but smile though as the girl’s lithe, adolescent frame materialised beneath; legs danced as though roused by a tune searching ears could not find. Wings were flared superbly, portraying childlike confidence, fully feathered and eager to feel the rush of flight; but another slipped between old pines to join her.

Midas! Africa called noiselessly out in the dream, forgetting that he lay truly beneath while the grip of Frostfall tightened around the world outside.

He looked younger, vivacious. Muscles rippled beneath a radiant, glossy coat of black and white as strapping legs carried him forward; Fina sat like a regal flame upon him, but neither Pegasus nor Phoenix swayed their focus from the dapple-grey girl. She couldn’t quite grasp the conversation which followed – she could hear nothing at all actually (maybe it was too old) – but the gangly, social awkwardness radiating from the girl as she bumbled in the humbling shadow of the couple was blatantly obvious. Africa couldn’t help but smile fondly as she remembered their first meeting and watching it now from an entirely new perspective (she was older, tainted and afflicted) renewed a small sense of that giddy fascination, attraction. It seemed his care for her had never wavered much...

The picture began to fuzz, to dissolve, but she strained defiantly, stubbornly, and it held firm around her.

They travelled south from the Threshold together to Dragon’s Throat, the frivolous girl and her valiant guardian, and though no feeling of the aridity overwhelmed her this time, the one-winged recalled quickly the wall of overbearing heat they had collided with during the final leg of that journey. She shuddered visibly in the cell as scrawny body braced and eyes fastened closed. The oasis’s bright, lush foliage soon surrounded them - sunlight flooded down, and mare and stallion spoke on for a time, but the memory began to waver once more and quickly it disintegrated altogether.

She might have loved to linger in that moment forever, so young and naive, but as darkness grew again between the soft warmth of flickering firelight, another face had appeared and it drew nothing of the smile which had been.

Star glitter filled the night sky, and her sooty, whiskered chin lifted in awe to behold it. Even the sliver-moon paled in comparison. Africa drew a short breath, unsure what the dream represented at first (was it Silas?), though she was curious nonetheless. In time, the lonely figure of a travelling stallion appeared upon a ridge; wings drooped dismally to either side of his trim waist, and head slunk forward as though he had not the strength in his spine any longer to bear its weight – she knew the feeling. He paused beneath a small rock ledge, and she could see his lips curl with speech, a sorrow in his eyes that touched her empathetic heart. Never had she seen Midas so glum, flat; it seemed all the worse after the bright being only moment's before. This time there seemed to be sound, born as though wind itself; it was barely a murmur, ghostly. It was a prayer, melancholic, moving. Suddenly though he was distracted and his nape twisted beneath familiar tendrils of silken black, haunting gaze locked upon the feeble frame of a colt and her gaze narrowed too; golden and white he was, juvenile wings dipped in the richest of caramels.

Africa did not recognise her desert brother, the young Diviner. He seemed so lively, eager – certainly not the reserved, though sensibly elegant stallion she considered him to be in the present.

The pair spoke for some time, and the young Gallant’s face seemed to lighten.

Again though the memory began to shimmer and flake prematurely and Africa’s jaded eyes widened in vain effort to watch on regardless. Her mind grew weary also though; could no longer focus enough to maintain. As all faded into nothing, she sank back into the cavern where he waited still upon the moist earth, yawning deeply. Weary eyes fell toward the stallion, glistening thoughtfully and fondly, and knees buckled as she reached his side. “How much longer should we wait?” she pondered softly, vaguely, and yawned again as her weight settled with barely a breath’s space between. She waited long enough for his reply before asking, “would you tell me a story,? From before all this darkness – from when things were brighter?” She wanted to ask about the golden foal who had brought him to life that night, to rouse that same smile now which had blossomed amid his despair.

Weight slumped lethargically beside the Gallant, Fina and Neve; and the stallion’s damp, masculine musk as it engulfed her, hot and damp, was awesomely intoxicating.

Africa remembered vividly a time long ago when torrents of unseasonal rain fell across the desert and flash-floodwater rushed down through the oasis, their paradise, in snaking channels. It had been the third bout of such drenching weather that dark day and the frothing, rich golden water swept and swallowed anything in its path. Stone, leaf, stick and any skink clown enough to still be basking across sun-cooked rock were devoured; potentially too as the afternoon drew on, the larger creatures risked injury or death if they were tardy and found not higher ground for themselves in good time.

Midas had been a General from memory, but certainly no less Gallant. It had been only a week or so before that he had fought courageously in the mountains to secure the young, inexperienced mare’s safety - brawn rippling beneath a tight pelt of glossy black, lashing mane of the same onyx hue, snapping teeth and earth trembling as he willed it – easily a scene she would not forget.

She had been new to the Dragon’s Throat, as fresh as first light and had not before experienced the wrath of such desert storms – neither the flooding to follow. Midas had come to her aid, breast heaving, caked in mud and soaked nearly to the bone. Fleeing the rain had been low on her list of priorities though she had realised quickly her error. Together they had sought refuge beneath the arms of an old tree, and regardless of his confirmation that all family were granted such devotion and care, Africa remembered well how thrilling those moments of his undivided attention had felt.

Velvety nostrils sucked deeply the clammy air in their cavern and let it free again slowly. So many moments shared, and mostly they warmed her to the core; she felt the heat radiating from his body and nerves shuddered along the bowed ridge of her spine.

Chin dipped lower and lower as Midas wove his tale of the whale about her listening ears. She had not seen a whale before, though his account stirred to life quiet thought of the God of the Earth’s symphony in the same region. He paused for a moment and heavy creamy eyes glanced towards him, lips curling with delicate fondness as they collided with his rich golden pools. “What was it for then,” she nickered softly, curiously, and fought back another yawn with a stiffened jaw.

Although exhaustion spread to numb her now more quickly, Africa was indeed eager to learn how Midas came to have gold following his steps – she savoured this moment, it had been too long between.

Regardless of the countless miracles Africa had both heard of and seen, the wonder of magic was still astonishing, awe-inspiring, and the ways in which it manifested still mostly took her breath away.

Though bleary and burdened by ever rising fatigue, creamy eyes widened candidly at his revelation that the humble fish had been the source of his magic. She had witnessed the appearance of such unusual creatures, even those known mainly in myth or legend, on one or two occasions. It seemed the vast land beyond their little cave (even the pools and cliffs just outside), held secrets that defied all belief and reality; Helovia was a wonderland, and it had been too long since she had taken time to lose herself in its folds.

His voice began to trail and fade beside her. Sleepy, watery eyes turned to find his and they were shining in the soft stew of waltzing firelight. Pooling within intricate honeyed hues was a quiet thoughtfulness; fondness and appreciation. For the second time in as many years Africa nestled down with the comfort and security he offered close by, and she pulled her front hooves in snug against her chest, chin dipping lower as each breath shortened with fading consciousness. She descended at last into an unbreakable sleep. As lashes closed and the strength in her body gave way, the one-winged mare descended into an ocean of dreams.

There, standing upon a white sand shoreline with waves crumbling around her hooves, Africa watched Enyo the whale breech the waves beyond in salutation. All around the deep sea giant, sparkling, sleek golden scales shimmered in rich sunlight as the fish, her mysterious brethren, danced and played.