Baradeer

Weary, but hardly beaten, the elderly warrior picked a slow path along the land bridge. It had been years since he had last set hoof upon the scorched sand of the desert – a decade at least. In his younger years he had served fiercely in the army of the Sun, and cloaked across his thinning frame was tough leather armour that had both witnessed and worn the bloodshed of many a brutal battle.

It was because of his beloved armour that the old stallion had returned.

There was no reason for the veteran to pause by the borderline. Tattered golden wings – once feathered gloriously and thrilled by the touch of swirling thermals - drooped tiredly alongside fumbling legs that were coloured the same; his proud Pegasus bloodline was ancient, ancestors that perhaps none of the youth guarding the land now should remember. He moved towards the oasis without hesitation and his dignified skull was perched boldly atop a lean lifted neck.

When he sank at last beneath rich green foliage and thick, welcome shade, old Baradeer drew a deep breath. From spluttering, ailing lungs a call erupted – croaky though firm – and another like he, emerged from the sands. The second stallion too was well past his prime. Thin wiry mane sprouted only in sparse tufts along his bowing crest, and his face was pinched by years of experience. Their kinship was obvious, brothers in arms, and four wings lifted in ceremonious greeting.

“Brother it has been too long...” the second greeted warmly.

“No words have been truer, Madarlon. It lightens my tired heart to find our home still standing... Pray tell me though brother, what has happened to the northern border?”

“A great sickness spread through Helovia, and every able body fled to the underground. Any remaining perished (it was the truth – mostly...), and when we surfaced all had changed.”

The old soldier was astonished and gasped, coughing hoarsely as his lungs choked on fluid.

“You have seen better days,” the second sighed grimly, confronted unexpectedly by his brother’s mortality. They had survived much together, but this grip of disease was feral, frightening.

Baradeer nodded – death loomed, but he had enough strength left for these final few tasks.

“It is a short visit only.” he explained, and both were aware that there would be no second return. “You have studied the lads today, the warriors standing in our stead? Tell me, is there one whose flame burns more fiercely than the rest?”

“Aye, brother. He is a she...”

“A what?”

“A sister...”

The weary soldier’s brow furrowed as he considered the revelation. What kind of generation was this, young and reckless – during their service, no woman would ever have been considered for battle. He grunted...

“Then I expect she would need it even more. Help me, Madarlon. Peel this leather from my skin.”

Old bones and lethargic muscles worked together to remove the weathered armour from Baradeer’s body. As it fell to the gravelly-soil with a thud, the soft breeze chilled his damp, sweaty pelt. He drew a sombre breath and touched his beloved leather one final time, and a lone tear glinted in the vivid sunlight. Goodbye, old friend... he whispered against it before turning again to his brother.

“See that it is fitted properly won’t you?”

The second stallion nodded, swallowing hard. “Where will you go now?”

“I fear this body’s strength is already failing. I will make haste towards the north, to the Heavenly Fields where my bones might bleach in honour of our father Sun. Pray brother...” Again his frame was wracked by a harsh, hacking cough, “...that I arrive...”

In fond farewell, the stallions' wrinkled lips touched together. Baradeer turned then, and slipped slowly back through the foliage the way he had come; leaving behind his adored Dragon’s Throat and his armour, for the final time.

Megaera

Strength was for the young, and Megaera had her share of it, a small share some might say, but it was all she had to use. She had first entered Helovia at three, still stunted and scrawny, now beginning her fifth year, she had truly left adolescence behind. The earth-colored coat shone like a mudslick as she darted through clouds. Each time she passed through, she emerged dripping from the concentrated condensation. Between the wind and the warm sun it took her only minutes to dry each time and she dipped in and out all the way home from the Sky Island.

The little sky-showers cleaned and cooled her body quickly, but it took nearly the entire flight back to the Throat to clear her mind. As her sultan’s only defender against a wash of accusations, Meg had been ready to fight, ready to die, in his defense, in defense of what she knew to be right. But then of course what did she really know about anything? Her ignorance, her impulsivity, had been plastered on her face and in her words for all to see. She often felt a mild twinge of jealousy for Hector’s strength, for Gaucho’s, but her size had never shamed her the way her actions had. That horrid bubbling pit of inadequacy had boiled as she left the island and it had taken that long flight to simmer down to a firce determination to do better, be better, and all for Dragon’s Throat.

It was wisdom that she still must learn. The little warrior had scars, each a lesson, and they would be joined by more before she could call herself wise.

The sight of the Oasis was a relief, wings quickened in a final burst of speed as it came into view. She would rest a few hours, safe in the embrace of her herd and then she would begin. She would seek out spars with her brothers sure enough, Hector and Einarr, but she’d look for more than that. Perhaps she could talk to Tandavi, find out more about her own magic, or to Alija about healing. She wanted to know everything, to be everything so that she could always protect the Throat, protect her family and never be caught again like some silly child.

The two figures caught her gaze, and the sight of armor had her mind flashing to battle, to invasions. But no, the armor was coming off and the two stallions looked as old as the Blood Tree. One she had seen before but never spoken to, just an old man in the herd and never a threat so she’d paid no mind. The other was a stranger, but he looked even older and before she descended to investigate, he had turned to leave. She did not pursue the unknown stallion, but watched his gold frame fade as she landed nearer his companion. It never entered her mind that he should be hindered, something about him on the desert sands just looked so right.

After a minute’s watch, she turned to the other stallion and spied gain the discarded pile of leather and metal on the ground. Something about the scene felt suddenly sad to Megaera, like she was intruding, so when she spoke it was rather soft for her deep voice and she dipped her head to the old stallion. “Well met, ser. I am Megaera, of the Sultan’s corps. Is anything amiss here?”

faithful like a soldier

Madarlon

A dark shadow passed across the dying soldier as he slipped into the distance. A majestic eagle perhaps – he had not the strength left to look.

Madarlon noted the silhouette of the Pegasus flying overheard, but paid it little interest – many came and went these days through the desert, and his eyes were set anyway upon the vanishing form of his old friend. It was only when the sound of rumbling words broke the shell of silence surrounding, that the haggard bay veteran ventured around.

A mare had appeared, and he cursed quietly his weary ears for not noticing her sooner.

Long, wasted legs creaked and groaned beneath his shifting weight, and despite the agony of arthritis ringing through each joint, the stallion smiled warmly. They were so similar - he thought – and that was part of the reason for the choice he had made. Though cataracts clouded their caress, earthy-brown eyes looked fondly and openly around her sleek bay frame.

Like him, she was small in stature, thin boned and set across neat, narrow hooves; though one remarkable difference stood out (apart from the division of years) - the scars patterned all over his bony body. It was a network so complex and beautiful that even the shag of his fur could not mask it.

“Megaera...” he breathed humbly, tempted to brush withered old lips across the supple warmth of her cheek. Madarlon swayed for a moment where he stood and memories that still seemed so fresh, flooded his mind. Times of vigour and grandeur, both of which had not been seen in Dragon's Throat for many years. Whiskered nostrils inhaled deeply, sucking the fading plume of desert-dust deep into his lungs.

How he would have loved to be so young again...

“All is well warrior-child of the Sun.” But as he turned his gaunt face to view her from a better angel, he noted quickly the ridged line of her stance. Furred ears swivelled forward curiously. “Does something trouble you?” he asked, frayed feathers ruffling as he lifted each of his tatty wings to rest above the dip of his sagging spine.

The sun’s touch was a blessing indeed, but the old stallion’s coat no longer thinned to prepare for Tallsun’s heat – it had not done so for many summers. Sweat leaked from gaping pores, staining brown shoulders and flanks black, and each breath grew heavy with fatigue as they lingered in the open.

Megaera

The old man looked terrible, thin and tired, covered in scars and sweat. Meg had never though much of her own mortality, hadn’t been given a reason to until now. The Throat was a young herd, full of foals and even the adults, save a few were none too advanced in age. Her years were stretched out before her and it was easier for the young warrior to see herself meeting their end in battle rather that the slow pull of years into old age.

Now she looked on the stallion and felt a tug of compassion. The pattern of scars told that his years had not been idly spent, but how he seemed to move stiffly. No longer a fighter for the body had finally decided to give it up, though she imagined his mind wished it otherwise. She wondered at the stories he might tell, and she would be eager to hear of the history of her home but it seemed impolite to pester him with childish questions.

His question was spot on, yes, she was troubled, but how much could she put into words? She had a pride that clung her insecurities close to her breast but there was something in the old eyes that softened her; he wouldn’t judge her fears…

Moving to stand beside him, Meg stretched out the dark feathers of her large wing to shade the old stallion. She loved the heat, gloried in it, but knew his bedraggled coat must be terribly uncomfortable in the approach of Tallsun. “Yes… I suppose I am troubled but I don’t know if there are any answers for them.” her words were hesitant, quiet but the trepidation did not entirely cover the companionable tone she always tried for. “I love this heard, I want to be a help to it, to protect it, but I don’t know if I am able.” The last word came out in a heavy sigh, and the sharp pinch of frustration eased a bit with that admission.

Like it had been with Gaucho on several occasions, the simple presence of an ear for her worries pulled them out of her. If there was something that the little warrior did not have, it was secrecy. If she was troubled, she said it; if she was happy, it was made known. It was when these emotions became so jumbled in her head that it was easiest to get them out of her lips. Talking them through helped to sort out the brain that worked too fast for her body. Only when her head was clear could she begin understand in her heart.

faithful like a soldier

Madarlon

The youthful creature was benevolent and attentive, perhaps blessed by the feminine chromosome gifted to her at conception. She came forward without question to shield his battle worn body from the very element in whose name they served – the Sun. Her type brought compassion to the cruellest of all the arts, and that was a quality to be treasured. Ever gracious the decrepit stallion bowed his haggard crest in response. There was no denying the instant relief the hearty mare’s shade presented.

Madarlon nodded slowly but earnestly as she revealed the truth – the insecurity which lurked beneath primed sinew and shining, rippling bay. It was like rust, a disease, corroding away confidence, and the old weather-beaten stallion had seen the same in many ambitious warriors before her.

There was a cure, and it was well within Megaera’s reach.

“Courage is the most important of all the virtues, my dear,” he replied boldly, effortlessly. Mucus rattled in his chest as he drew a long, pensive breath and he coughed hoarsely, turning from her for a moment, politely. The harsh sound broke soon enough into a cheerful chuckle and his cracked, dry lips smiled broadly...

“Of course, there is nothing wrong with a little facilitation between comrades.”

His fathomless gaze softened as it wandered without hurry between her glistening, brown eyes, and his attention dipped at last to the leather armour heaped against the blistering sand. It was indeed the end of an era, his aged bones were thin, and like Baradeer before him, the dishevelled bay knew well that his time on earth too, was drawing to an end. With thoughtfulness fixing through his tired expression, Madarlon lowered his nose to brush the tanned suit and he tasted the old familiar hue of his brother with a heavy heart.

“This leather, Megaera...” the stallion began tenderly, “...it has seen many a war, guarded its soldier from both tooth and blade. You will find none more faithful in all of Helovia.”

His heavy skull lifted again and he nodded sagely, studying her with a kind eye.

“It is yours now...”