There was an air of anxiousness about the one-winged mare as she followed gingerly the path of her mate into the southern Helovian country.

Like every aspect of her personality, this growing apprehension was quite transparent – no matter how blasé the exterior she attempted to force – and with every step nearer, Africa’s breath became heavy with worry. It had been months since she had paid homage to the God whose trust she had unquestionably insulted; though often she thought of Him, fretted and grieved over her struggling faith. He had chosen her to stand both as Diviner and then Sultana of Dragon’s Throat, key roles she had accepted with a gracious heart and had strived always sincerely to honour.

In an unfortunate sequence of events, the flaming mare had been stripped of the role she had cherished so dearly; Africa was raised into greater responsibility and set beside hearts that were perhaps not as long-term, as was she. Though she cared little for her own reputation in all truth, she felt unfathomable guilt for failing both His confidence, and that of the herd who she had sworn to serve. By the end of her reign (so insignificant it had been), her self-belief had been chipped down to the bone and bitter depression challenged her loyalty to the desert kingdom. A mere skeleton of the motivated creature she had been for years, the one-winged had gracelessly slipped into oblivion – found later starving and without hope, but the one who had never failed her.

Her swayed allegiance came only naturally while she was down – purged from power by a faithless, friendless following (their numbers had plunged despite her effort, and that alone spoke volumes), and won in turn by benevolence and unfailing friendship.

They arrived after a long journey – perhaps a week or more with young Zahra in tow, and Africa passed a wary eye across the cerulean lava pooling to either side of the trail. She was relieved when Midas spoke, tales of old to treat his daughter’s ear, and listened quietly amid the churn of her own weathered thought. She followed from the rear, lips touched protectively to the fine down top of the filly’s twitching tail as they closed the final distance to the shrines. As they drew near she thought to pray – but what good could her tardy pleas serve. She had not returned to the home over which He watched, and perhaps to add salt to that wound, the dappled deserter had sworn service to the God they were approaching; strength of the Earth spilling through her veins.

She watched vaguely as golden flowers bloomed between luminous blue petals, torn horribly, and sooty velvet drifted near to Midas, meeting gratefully his gesture. With tender persuasion, she guided her young child to stand at the shoulder of her father – come to rest finally, at the same point on her other side.

Soon enough, the ancient deity appeared before them and Africa drew a humbled breath. There was little reason for her to speak (she had come for the sake of her suckling babe’s care), though at some point it was her desire to thank the God of the Earth for the healing vines entrusted to her.