Hearth

I dance in a sway of low clouds, shivering at the velvet touch of mild moisture over my wings and flanks. The sun warms my back like a hot stone while it rests high and bright above, casting a strong shadow below on the fields in the likeness of giant bird of prey. I spare a glance beneath me and behold a blaze of unfocused greens with blurs of purple and shimmers of clear blue water. It is a meadow, I find, caressing the ribs of a great river; a wide and open space that breaks from the encloser of the evergreens and redwoods almost like a wound and yet a far more welcome sight. I ponder my direction and figure I must have traveled southward for the weather is a far contradiction to my day just before. Yesterday was riddled with the breath of winter, deep to the shank with snow and in the dead of night and now I fly in the cusp of spring with the sun hot on my back. But I suppose that is not all that odd at all, if this land were in its transistion months. I have seen such things before. I have known them before in another place.

As I continue to behold the land a thought comes to me, or rather a name.

Helovia.

It is the name that those two spoke to me the night before, the one they claimed this land had. Helovia, Helovia. I try the word again and again in my head, musing over it, half for amusement and half for understanding it. A land with a name. I find the concept strange to me yet... curious. The only difference I could discern between this and all of the world was distance. The earth is the earth, wide and ever reaching, its foundation a soil made of bodies connecting one and all and the sky eternal. That is the true identity of things in the end, or so I've always known it to be.

Still eying the meadow from above I feel a begging in my legs to feel the earth beneath my hooves, crying for the challage of my weight upon rather then the tepid weightlessness of air. My great wings do not protest to this urge I find, still wearied by my harsh usage of them these past days. Inwardly I sign to myself, slightly resistant to return to the ground so soon, though not afraid too. Far from it. But I cannot travel with my fair wings in such a state. It is unkind to push them any further then what they can bear. A creature of sky I may be but I am also a child of earth, a part of me I have forgotten as of late it seems. I angle toward the river and descend down onto its bank, scattering the sands with an unpolished landing and relishing in the sweet relief of my wings. The plush of the tannish grains is an unusual feeling and I shift my weight restively, testing the surface before lumbering onward toward the water. Once to the edge I bow my head to its shifting surface, beholding my flame-marked face for a moment before shattering the image as I supped lanqidly to sooth my thirst, tuning into the babble of the water and the shifting of the thistles and tall grass in the breeze.

____________
"Speech."

For flame, for heart

Hearth

My fate apparently pines for company. I had heard the daintiness of the stranger's footsteps in the loose sand and swiveled my ears back along with a glance, my attention caught as I bore witness to its pale outline merging upon the imperfect mirror of the rivers glossy surface. I mused over the reflection, observing it, considering its long irregular shape and unclean edges before dismissing its existance and returning to my supping, no less perturbed then before. Many things come to the river as all things share the hunger for the silver blood of water. Who am I to be offended by the presence of another creature? I am Hearth and I am not so piety nor am I so frightful. I am wise in wary and know when to fear, for I have traveled and seen many things. Now is not one of those times for no pard scent lingers in the air, no rattle decrees its presence and nothing meaning harm pauses so timidly upon the shore to dispense malevolence. I offer whatever is near a faint shrug of my wings and wouldn't have given another thought to it had it not spoken to me.

The greeting is bright and young, a match for the strength of sun that radiated all around. However, I could not say the same for the being it sprung from. As I turned to look my eye befell upon a sad looking beast as lanky as a doe filled the hollows of hunger. I am burdened with a sort of ache, a faint afterthought, at his condition, if it is one at all. I know the fangs of Winter as well as my wings know the lift of the air.
It is an unforgiving time and indiscriminate in its ways. Be strong or perish. None can escape its grasp without a struggle, its pressure unyielding. Some feel it worse then others and hang on by a thread. Healing from the hardship may take longer then the season itself at times. What was the case for my company I do not know and I would not ask nor judge.

"The same to you, twigs."

The words spill out of my mouth like a habit in response to his greeting, albeit in good humor along with a crooked smile. 'Twigs' was merely a stylized way to sum up his appearance and seemed, to me, a fair enough return for calling me 'feathers'. A sort of game, as it were. Looking closer ( or at least paying more attention to detail) I could almost feel a certain want, a curiosity burning in his cold eyes at my great wings and, on a whim, fold to my hunch. Ponderously, reverently I unfold the arm of my closest wing and extend its mighty length toward the young stranger, exposing each individual feather to the gloss of the sunlight as to unveil their hidden patterns of banded fire so that they may be observed more closely.

" Look and see." I invite kindly, tilting my head in turn to my open statement.



____________
"Speech."

For flame, for heart