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.