Practically bursting after a week spent indulging on the bountiful fruits of Birdsong, Silas had wedged himself snugly into the fork of the tallest pine in the central meadow of their home. Though the oasis of Dragon’s Throat possessed its own delicacies, they were often few and far between, and while Africa had served tirelessly the Sun’s herd as Sultana, there had just been so little time to take advantage. A warm breeze curled down from the heavens, dragging lethargically the bristly roost he had chosen, but the star-flecked bird did not stir; his neck had twisted, tiny feathered skull buried beneath a shroud of silky feathers. He was sound asleep.

Below, his dapple grey bonded grazed quietly upon the sweet, succulent grass, mood far lighter than it had been in many years. She was thriving at last it seemed. Appetite had returned and already a new fullness fleshed out the ridges of her body; coat gleamed as the rich nutrients of this hidden world worked to heal both heart and soul. There was fond company too, to lift her spirits and for this, pale golden-haloed eyes sparkled all the brighter. There was an entirely different quality of life in the Falls to that which she had grown so wearisome beneath in the desert, and she revelled in the peace it brought.

There was a lull in the banter of the birdlife caught in the wood surrounding, and long coal-tipped ears swivelled forward across thick soft mane curiously. Her thin coat flinched as she regarded the sudden silence cautiously, and as her grey face high into the air nostrils sucked deeply, tasting, testing. Something wasn’t right. The scent she discovered startled her – Africa had forgotten that friends of old lingered with Midas here. Rasta! Widening eyes danced through the small meadow, and knees twisted beneath her turning weight. "Rasta!"

The pallid mare was standing just north, collapsing, and instantly memory of the last time they had spoken flooded her lurching mind. In no time lean legs were folding beside the blind friend, "Lie still, rest...." The Starry-Eyed heart ached to see the state of her friend – blood caked across sullied cream, wounds so gruesome that she cringed, sickened. Thoughts wondered as she worked, whether it was the murderer Midas had mentioned who had injured Rasta so awfully, but she steadied herself quickly and drew a deep cleansing breath. The magic stewing inside was not foreign to her. Already she had called upon its power to touch Confutatis...

Tender emerald shoots began to sprout from their earth-nest, cloaked in rich soil, purifying mud, all around the injured mare. They grew and grew, delicate vines slithering across fallen hide, encasing her where she lay, and Africa guided them wordlessly with compassionate, steady concentration. Before long, the crippled creature was covered; quivering leaves budded across the bulge of sprawled flesh beneath as Earth’s magic cleansed, and mud oozed between pulsing vines. Skin meshed together wherever it had been scored and swelling began to dull, bruising to fade.

"Dear friend," The Starry-Eyed whispered breathlessly at last. The vine were recoiling, shrinking back into the soil from which she had summoned them, and the dappled mare slithered down to her friend’s side. "Who caused you such pain?" Tenderly she nuzzled the bared neck between rambling mane, now clean and whole, and concerned eyes roamed the length of barrel spread out behind.

Africa