‘Molten fur, banded with tar and stained with the blood of kinsman and foe alike. I knew him only as a mortal demon who took from the world whatever he desired. A fiend who crushed and ascended at whim; burning would-be friends and traitors in the same wild, insane flame. Mercifully, I was but a grain in his kingdom; an oddity, a pet. (Though not the sort to be lavished with affection.) In their world of blue hearts and chaotic minds – mortality, mercy and empathy became a rarity. For the majority living alongside me…life seemed short and painful.’

Searing fingers balloon in my chest. The tendons in these corroding limbs have surpassed their limit a half dozen miles behind me. Feathers thrum…submitting my ambition to the whims of those untamed torrents. (I no longer have the strength to demand control of it.) For three days, I’d traveled on foot and wing. Early on it was the fear of being caught (a certain, slow torture) which spurred me. But when I glanced back at the end of that first day and was unable to find their looming pinnacles...a new, complex reality began to set in.

I was persecuted and homeless.

Anxiety bleeds into a prolonged dread…blending with stinging uncertainty.

The sun sets and a pattern emerges: fly, walk, drink and eat.

But I don’t sleep.

Twice in a day, I stop to ease the hunger pangs in an angry gut and quench my screaming thirst. After using water to misplace my scent, I cower in whatever shelter the land readily provides; saucer eyes are rimmed crimson and burning with unshed tears. But even on the lip of exhaustion…sleep doesn’t come. In those rustling overhead branches, I could see his face…in the windblown wheat, my serrated mind fabricates his dappled fur and snags a glimpse of his soft chocolate eyes…deepening an unreadable complexion.

And here I am…driving myself beyond his reach.

Beyond the tether of a broken promise.

-----------

At daybreak on that fourth day, I’m hardly able to rise…’much less fly.’ With numbing resolve I tuck these weary, trail stained hollows against my sweat and dust caked fur. Dredged limbs stutter onward, seemingly capable of functioning on autopilot; by high noon I pass (wobble) into a grove of trees that progressively darken the various game trails with shadows. A small boon, considering summer’s heat is like a miasma, hovering over the red hue soil and singing locust. Pale feathers shuffle inward, weakly tightening their hold against my thin body.

The endless blue ocean beyond Manangatang’s coral reef is ominously dark, mysterious, though its tossing grey body glitters merrily in the radiant, red, afternoon. Occasionally, the enormous profile a whale beneath the waves materialises from black depths, or the shining line of a sleek, leaping fur seal breaks the shifting, glassy surface. Sea-birds, some with unbelievably broad wingspans, swoop in fearlessly from parallel heights to view the visitor to their realm – Noah is a peculiar giant amongst them, who soars effortlessly beneath heaven’s pastel breast. Glances are exchanged only briefly as they pass; resolve drives the larger forward upon vigorous bursts and feathers flutter blissfully as the wind funnels swiftly beneath each glorious arm.

The mission he has been tasked echoes unceasingly, noisily in the traveller’s ears, clouding his thoughts; rolling, twisting, thrashing through his frazzled mind like a cut snake. The young stallion is overwhelmed and horribly worried. His blind journey began at the crack of dawn that very same day, and dozens of gaping eyes had witnessed his performance, the bold departure which had in fact caused nervous sweat to break behind his ears – he doesn’t deserve their trust. Even as he cruises east, he aches for the comfort of warm white sand and the sooth of tepid sea. Squinting aqua eyes train to the flat length of horizon ahead - searching for any indication of land, sign that his uneducated choice of direction has been smart.

Before there is any glimpse of rugged, rocky strand, the loud entrance of protesting birds and a great solitary sea eagle above them, reignites his withering hope. The smaller, more raucous of the aerial creatures, he notes, has not the lean figure of those met throughout the day (of even the gliding eagle); their bodies are stocky, wings short, and they flap ferociously as the offshore wind hassles their pursuit. They are birds who belong in trees, it is clear, and he strains forward eagerly as the blurred outline of continent begins to grow. Wrought, focused shoulders seem to slip suddenly free of fear’s binding.

Evening bruises the soft blue daylight, drawing a thick veil of purple-blue across the sky behind him. The light is starting quickly to dim, but the heartened young stallion has already tipped downwards his wings; excitement bullies his balance. He has been soaring at such elevation that it takes a good length of time to lower and darkness has well and truly smothered the tall, pungent forest which he at last descends. The wiry, whipping, foreign canopy takes him by surprise and he stalls with eyes agape and enormous wings pumping against branch and leaf. He crashes crudely to earth and behind him tumbles all manner of woody debris.

Litter falls like a splitting veil around him when he stirs soon after, dragging splayed limbs into line beneath and forcing his fatigued frame to stand. The world around him is black and silent – he wonders if any have woken to the ungainly sound of his arrival and glances warily beneath the swivel of hunting ears. A night bird cries desolately in distant branches, but nothing more curious is snared. The stiff readiness in his posture dissolves and moments after are spent correcting each feather skewed from its bed, pulling one snapped, and chewing prickled twigs from the delicate skin beneath. Blood speckles here and there across gold and white, but he is uninjured, and shakes vigorously the second he is done.

'This is it!' one thought declares audaciously, and feathered legs endeavour forward.

The night is spent walking without rest – there is no question about it, the winged beast is lost.

As the first breath of dawn-light dilutes the choking dark, he discovers a labyrinth of barky trees, a forest, whose nature seems identical, no matter which course he takes. He cannot go home, so he continues – on and on. By mid-morning, the redwoods have thinned thankfully, and he can stretch the aching muscles in his wings; they rise into the stale, warm air as though they know no shackle, but he calls them back gently to rest and each feathery limb folds once more to rest against the warmth of his waist.

When the sun hits her pinnacle, he can tolerate the weight of summer no more. Noah slips from the baking openness of a long glade into dappled shade. It offers only small respite, yet he is grateful and grazing past twin trunks, seeks deeper shadow still. Cicadae sing on deafeningly, while locusts chant in shrill, sporadic bursts. It is difficult to hear anything else in between and that is likely the reason that he failed to notice her – nestled like a shy doe beneath a den of ragged scrub. His face turns left, then right as sea-green eyes swim between curious, bi-coloured pools; the darkest plane of her face and the sapphire socketed within drive his gaze right (the paler perhaps is softer, quieter). “Are you hiding?” he asks faintly, lifting his face momentarily to survey the grove - it certainly looked that way. Heavy wings shook in place, feathers ruffled as he drank in the impression of her own, so much smaller.

Despite a heavy canopy, shafts of glaring radiance bar into the mesh-work, probing for various points of entry. But within the cooler belly of this cheerless wood, the afternoon heat is jaded and my parched skin is given the chance to mitigate discomfort. Even so, a soft lament of affliction wrests free. My skirting pluck couldn’t push me any further. Caving, I lower my head – hovering inches from that soft litter of weed and leaf. Dejected, slender appendages begin to tremble; losing ground as my resolve corrodes. The flesh groans, pleading resentfully to my steadfast -stupid- determination. The color in my vision wavers; the eclipse seeps from outer corners and progresses at a snail pace inward.

Knife-like ears sag as my rebellious shell crumbles into the cool, uneven sod. Limbs buckle and feathers strain apart – instinctively attempting to adjust and protect against abuse. A dirty wad of sweat infused hair flops over the delicate span of my face, dancing in front of my eyes. Nostrils quiver, dragging gently as their owner beckons for continuous gulps of stifling air.

A spasmodic, razor sharp throb digs into my right haunch; I wholly construct the animation of those nasty, black thorns as they threaten to lacerate just below the fur line. Patchy shutters widen, the dazed iris tapers rearmost– a throat tightening mix of fear and anxiety become fuel for my paranoia. I force my head to rise and wrench over the unkempt floor. The folds of these damp brims inch apart, rigged to shred a lasting mark into my imagined attacker. Though…to a logical eye, it would be a useless gesture of force, considering my weapons are weakly brandished.

Ivories seal upon the nearest prong with deadly intent, the splintered, foul taste of wood sneers into my senses – re-awaking some semblance of sanity. The wooden bough snaps and my sprig assassin falls to the ground. I drop the branch, squinting at it through a fog of mania as my thundering heart whispers false comfort, ‘they can’t find you,’ my wounded mind and failing rationality disagree.

Above the white noise and solid pounding in my head, I hear the forest shuffle…Panic restarts, my throbbing pulse canters into overdrive; buckets of blood ascend, filling my head until a faintness wanes upon the surface – threatening to overwhelm my consciousness. Lips slither back, revealing the yellowish knives beneath…I snag a glimpse of blond fur between trees. Heat rises to my face as terror hauls itself across the surface of my mind, distorting the image of him.

I wouldn’t surrender to him without a fight…

They wouldn’t wear or sleep upon my hide without first earning a maim by which to remember me.

He…

When the plaid giant comes into view…realization of my fault gradually dawns. He speaks; alien vocals that produce a soft, masculine voice…wealthy in strength and lacking the usual sting I’d come to except…My brain stutters to a stop. He wasn’t…HE isn’t THAT gilden monster…

I twist to face him…swallowing the waves of uncertainty as they break. Nostrils drag, sipping his essence from the stagnate air. Salt and something…foreign. Irises drift, sliding from that wide rim to the feathered arms nestled against his fidgeting carcass. Motley flesh and pale feathers; both of which are forged with steel cords and decorated in generous swaths of lustrous hair. He is a king…a prince…

Once more, I’ve found myself at the mercy of a more powerful, terrifying opponent.

His impromptu arrival is an inconvenience – still more, a surprise!

Even as the soft carol of his innocence drifts blithely into oblivion, she retaliates with unforeseen (unwarranted), hostility, defensiveness, and he shrinks a little from her stormy circle. The intensity of the reaction however, is fleeting and aggression gives way to something more familiar, relatable; uncertainty.

The bright blue-green eyes that reflect her splendidly elfin presence shine inquisitively, wonderingly, for she looks like nobody he has before come across. The family, their memory, to whom his benevolent heart clings so profoundly, are big and burly beings, splashed golden and white, with cascades of ivory hair both spilling down neck, hock and knee. ‘Beauty’ is not a word that springs to the forefront of his mind as he considers their intrinsic quality quickly; her loveliness however, is astonishing, divine. The fairy before him is a queer trick of light, a sliver of shadow, a delicate illusion that might slip just as readily into the waft of summer’s breeze; he blows a hot breath through dilating nostrils and cream-coloured ears explore the air curiously for hint that she is true. He wishes greatly for her not to vanish, not to ride that doubt riddled through her, away.

Behind him, the strange new wilds hum on busily, but the pitch, it seems, no longer plays with his focus. She exclusively, fills his mind.

There are thistles in her long, mahogany mane, smears of mud caked across narrow, coloured toes - the perfect pasterns above; old, subtle green stains upon pallid legs (the fine hair there is skewed) suggest a turbulent time; the wren has wandered far, he believes, as he touches thoughtfully back to her withered gaze. There is warmth in his veins, tenderness, and concern; his past, though bursting with ambivalence, was constructive enough, moral, and his approach today mirrors that upbringing. It is all in the world he knows. Pale throat rises instinctively once more, positioning the great skull at its end at a good vantage point, and carefully he turns a thorough inspection left, then right. Still they are alone. He returns to her level beneath a crashing wave of off-white forelock, visibly confident, a postural display of certainty that might ease a frail mind; there is nothing to fear - especially now that he is near.

Alas, there is damage beneath her quiet radiance. He observes both the coiled, cautiousness of her stance, and to a greater degree, the pheromone filling each lung. Her dread was bitter, delicious - calling out desperately to the bravado of youth. Beside her petite, porcelain figure, young Noah (barely a stallion) feels all the more virile; he stands taller, wider, and the mass of alabaster feathers flanking, flares impressively.

“Are you alright?” he queries after a time, drawing rich baritone from the depths of his chest. It was natural, automatic, and he drew back nearer as though the company he offered might drive away her demons.

There was something in his confidence...it coaxes a shred of my dismay to fall to the eroded bedrock within me; eyes lift, craning upward with effort. Mini me treads water, leering from those dank corners of my subconscious, looking to the ‘could-be’ emperor and instantly doubting his appearance as genuine; her fresh theories stroke my alarm, ‘a skin-changer?’ I scan, searching for support. Her appalling suggestion might hold weight had his expression bore any sign of abhorrence toward me. No matter the form ‘they’ took; none of ‘them’ were capable of concealing the animosity woven into the netting of their demented souls.

Only…Severus.

The echo of his namesake brings a dim, dejected face gleaming to the front…tediously…I push it aside. Only he gazed upon their world with unhampered eyes. Basking in the privilege found from a lover within the topmost rank of that world. I sluggishly haul my focus from his memory, trading imaginary for reality. I trace his checkered pelt, from stocky, painted pillars -- to the square line of his chiseled jaw.  This creature wasn’t a skin-changer. Ears skim forward, tuning in when he breaks the silence once more; absorbing the tone in his jargon more so than the words themselves. Intuitively and with a trembling desire to understand, I reach for magic – for the power to translate his speech into a recognizable form – but rather than the familiarity of sterling warmth coming to meet my effort, I’m met with a cool, empty space.

A vacant hollow where light once abide.

My fractured, panicking focus abandons him for a fraction of a moment; darting toward my neckline in search of that sterling pedant. But I didn’t need to see to conclude with sunk hope…that it is gone. I’d lost the gift. ‘That isn’t all you’ve misplaced,’ my subconscious flags a larger problem, drawing my overworked fixation. I explore those inner caverns, meticulously seeking rims in hopes of finding…anything…a spark, a sign.
But there was nothing. Just emptiness and the echoing thereafter.

It couldn’t be…my grasp on personal resolve weakens…my ace, my magic…is gone. All of it.

Optics surge up, returning to the present and the unknown entity. Unable to rely on unnatural means to produce answers, I dip into my shallow vocabulary; passing the terminology he presented across a filter gathered over the course of a year. (Before obtaining the gift to understand, I became adept toward puzzling sentences and gestures together.)

The bleached monarch had asked a question and the bottom half of his sentence ushers relief in the form of recognition. “No,” though the simple sound is easily spoke, (considering it was one I’d learnt in those early weeks,) the tone cracks, openly revealing those hairline fractures in my personality, “I-I am…” brows tumble, scrunching, “chassé,” anguish bubbles, mounting in strength…and not just because I didn’t know the word in his tongue for ‘hunted.’ There are other words which could become an accurate substitute, “f-followed-d,” an unhelpful waver injects, wobbling until the word breaks off. I groan and lean back, pinions readjust – following the cues of my body. Binary eyes scan for unfavorable signals, “who,” I relay, slowly, pulling from that memory bank before exhaustion can sink deeper into these bones, “are you?”

Her poise pales before him, though his display doesn’t flinch; for the first time in his life, he feels adequate, motivated, and the sunlit shaft within which he has paused, illumines the demonstration all the more. ‘He’ is the illusion now, gilded paint-pelt rippling above formidable, flexing power – but there is humility, gentleness, in the soft caress of his voice, the humble touch of his gaze upon her. She is hesitating, watching, speculating in the private corridors of her mind. One critical cobalt eye is set upon him, teeming with ravenous doubt, chipping savagely at the façade he so desperately wants to uphold. She won’t break him, he will hold firm.

Pretty, pointed ears flick forward until their tips nearly brush – it’s progress, she is listening!

She challenges his resolve and withdraws once more into the silence of her secret contemplation; his being swells forward, utterly intrigued, captivated, though heavy knees never shift. He wonders with glittering attentiveness just what the breath of her conscience murmurs; will she yield to his offer of sanctuary? Will she flee into the jaws of this foe? Each out-breath is hot, sharp, brimming with anticipation and golden cups quiver in their flaxen bed as she dares his patience to thin. The engrossed stallion has an eternity to wait.

Like a mouse before the owl, she comes to life so suddenly, pupils practically bursting from their nest of brilliant blue; thickly threaded crest balks back (a mere creature of prey himself), when her chin dips without warning, to touch near a succulent breast – what was she searching for? It only added to her enthralling queerness, that incredible exquisiteness she embodied. ‘Sweet’ skull returns a second time, still lower, following the guidance of her own, yet he suppresses the urge to touch it too. Lost in the moment, he startles when her eyes drive abruptly into him (she has returned to their den), and beneath the shallow bounce of ivory mane, the hero holds true.

An encouraging smile pulls temporarily up his lips.

‘No’, is what she tells him almost feebly – and testosterone spurts instantly from bulging glands. Fine golden hair tracing his spine bristles boldly, though invisibly. Her voice is small, almost infantile in pitch, which only serves to strengthen his ambition. With baited breath he waits, hanging from the spasm, the twitch, of her split-toned, whiskered lip; it is a volcano on the brink, and its boiling belly stirs excitement through him. She speaks again and his expression mimics hers, though instead he is enthralled; ‘chassé’… forms no picture in his mind. Thankfully, the fairy’s meek sound lifts again and this time he understands (though her speech clearly struggles).

There is no mistaking her fear.

Body language shifts as she shrinks back beneath a cloud of fresh, spicy pheromone, and the stallion drinks it deeply; his crest arches slowly, turning eyes fill with new vigour, waterfall tail gleams as the dock snug beneath lifts. “I’m Noah,” smooth drawl answers reassuringly, sincerely, while examining the web of shadow as it swayed beyond the grove. This was seamless; they were perfect. His skin rolled visibly above the contraction of his burly, young body – he was the lion and she, the lamb. “Who follows?” he queried in earnest while his ego fancied visions of mere vermin, bending to his will.

His name, though noted, isn’t nearly as interesting as the low rumble of his song flowering from within that robust chest; it reminds me of the gentle echoes in the sky, hot thunder as it pulsates across heaven and beyond. Those assuring tones stir an unnamed emotion deep inside me…it brings a faint and unwelcome fervor to pulse upon my face. My foreboding expectations dwindle as his honest expression and towering presence stubbornly chip away at my timidity. Though unbroken deposits of skepticism linger, I ignore the impending doubt for a moment, even as it savagely butts against the roof of my subconscious. “Noah,” lips palpitate, gingerly repeating his response.

Jowls fan apart, the swell of air needed for trade is already prepped and ready to go – but the sound becomes locked in the back of my throat when he asks…who…

Irises flick up, widening as a memory comes snarling from beneath foamy waves…

-----

No amount of cringing or begging the earth to swallow me whole is going to ease the discomfort of what would come…I resentfully push beyond the protective treeline; hanging toward the rear of the crowd and avoiding direct eye-contact. ‘Just stand here,’ mini me growls, wholly horrified at the idea of merging within their mass. These pale hips shift, drawing me to an obedient stop; creamy feathers reassume an overlaid position after readjusting for comfort. Statuesque, I slump into my position as a wall-flower; only the tip of that ink infused tail flicks quietly against quivering heels. Irises linger upon the dirt, forcing the entirety of my frame to visibly slouch -- downcast, not daring a glance across those ahead of me.  

Unnatural heat rises from the metallic locket around my neck. Fingers of power crawl upward…the dragon’s gift awaits, anticipating my needs.

An orphan child, hardly old enough to be without her mom – she moves from within the mass. From the corner of my vision, her narrow frame comes shuffling over. I remain motionless as she slides in beside me; pressing into the shallow darkness created by the absence of light. Within my breast, the heart throbs, pricks of fear smart against the roof of my mind…’no’, it whispers…’go away’...

‘I can’t save you…’

Her warm breath washes against my skin, delicate pinpoints of comfort from a creature that only wanted to be held…protected. I swallow raw terror as it knots in the back of my throat.

One wary pinion hesitantly stretches out; aiming to slide up and over her tiny, malnourished frame. Encasing the child within shadow, but careful to not touch upon her body. “Be still,” I lower my head inward, purposely keeping the hue of my voice scratching under a whisper. She looks up with grey blue eyes that don’t fit her tiny, hollowed skull….

----

Shutters flutter close and distend on the next breath. The haze clears and that memory dissolves, melting from snow into water, “who?” I hear myself repeat, murmured on the exhale of a raw gasp. I didn’t have the vocabulary to explain what those demons actually were - so I settle on a word that inaccurately describes their character and blood thirsty, unnatural desires, “bad,” irises nestle upon the mountain of a man called, Noah, “very bad.”

I couldn’t understand why he was bothering with me – nobody had ever come to my rescue before – why would he? My subconscious hisses, forked with a desire to dig into the real meat of ‘who’ he was, ‘what does he want?’ Brows quiver, furrowing my expression and nourishing a renewed bough of anxiety, “why…” I am nothing but a tumble weed, a trodden flower...a traitor and coward, “are you,” words filter in at a trickle, careful…though…at the end they stumble off a figurative ledge, cracking upon the floor as a quiet whimper slips into my voice, “talking to me?” It seemed incredulous that man of his stature would stoop to converse with a wasting soul…

I had nothing left to give…Unless he planned on screwing a corpse.

Machiavellian shadows crawl hungrily, progressively, between slivers of strolling sunlight, and green needle-leaves therein whisper, ‘hiss’, wildly to one another while mild wind tempts away their diffidence; the stallion watches this from the half-rotten floor, listening, learning. His chin is circling slowly, deliberately, with each sense high on alert. Her quailing voice sings forth, so mild and delicate, and almond eyes dance back beneath the swivel of furred ears quickly, to greet it. She is a moth lost in the day, scattered and floundering, but far more beautiful; a butterfly, drowned in the vast hopelessness of night. Though, cradled within the security of his gaze, he wants to assure her – as beautiful as the manzanita after fire, she will overcome this. He, the sunlight, will brighten the way.

He is a Warrior, guardian, whatever the peril.

‘Very bad’, the dove elucidates – he expects as much. With every brief exchange, the ambience, the whole forest surrounding, seems to dull, quieten; it dims, even like the calm before a storm. It is impossible for him to understand the merciless ‘horror’ that looms in the wings of her mind; the reaper incarnate. In the past he has fought colts, maimed foxes and chased deer; but never has he faced anything near the wrath of true danger. Death stalks his charge, her thoughts and dreams, with jagged, salivating jaws. Affluence resonates through him. They are like fire and ice… The crystalline film of hope in her eyes cracks suddenly and his heart lurches forward desperately; it thunders, thrums a melody of panic against his bruised self-worth.

He snorts softly as bountiful blonde tendrils smother each hock.

Each sentence seems as broken as her soul (he thinks); he seizes those few words given voraciously, untiringly, and hangs still for more like a dog craves bone – the last mews almost pitifully and giant wings draw forward as the compassion in him flares. Why should he care? He wonders, and thinks; memories stir and a wall of gleaming eyes rises about him, all around. He is shivering, nervous and stunned by the glare of the cheer – their conviction is too heavy for his unworthy shoulders to bear. He sways dizzily in place, unable to squeeze into the ill-matched shape of this calling.

His journey rides on the back of their faith, even now - of hers’.

Though he each studies her well and ponders his path forward, there is no reason (that he can find), which might mean her exclusion. He needs her; his charge is withered like a rose without light – she needs him. Breath pumps stiffly as he steps forward again. Wordlessly he pushes at the barrier between them, the tension of air, and as warm, stubbly lips risk even nearer, he smiles. Was there anything left of her to lose? There is barely more of her than shell, or so is the first impression he’d taken; but the longer they dwell together in the afternoon warmth, snippets betray more of the life that was cowering within. He knows the answer already (perhaps), though wants her to see… she won't break.

He says nothing, but there is softness in his gaze and a mysterious curve upon those lips. Since I'd been raised in a world that didn't understand me, his tiny signs don't go unnoticed; those facial hints are my window into the puzzling king. Though...his expression doesn't answer my question. I wasn't his problem...I wasn't anyone.

Yet...He waits, a steadfast mountain...

Those feathered limbs drift across the ground, scattering sunlight in their wake. Unease clashes with unpredictability, irises train up, wariness calcifies from the center, bleeding outward...What did he...? Heartstrings thrum when he reaches out. The fine hairs on his snout sway as his humid breath teases them to life.  I retract, flinching inward; a desperate act of instinct bore from adaptation and self-preservation.

His essence thickens, coaxing my strength from an impossible depth. I sense a taunt energy pulsing in the air between us. It calls me, fanning the span of my face with unhelpful warmth.  A muffled gasp rides from my core...what...is he? Nostrils flare, drinking the faint whiff that drifts in...Oh no...Panic -sharp and powerful- rears her forked head; I jerk back, glancing to my left just as a fiend comes charging in from the undergrowth! As the banded flesh comes screaming into view, a scream, a warning becomes tangled in the back of my throat. These wide rims burn, tears welling in their corners. 'No!!' I plea, a single cry emits weakly, 'please!' I beg the monster and whoever else might be listening. Limbs strain out, spurred by adrenaline; but a lack of physical strength hinders my attempt to rise.

He cannot see the tracker, the soldier - the killer, who lurks supremely beyond their perception; he cannot fathom the danger, their vulnerability and ignorance. He is bold, but his experience lacks. A snake waits coiled, electrified and anticipating, and they stand by idly like dumb game. The hot breeze blows the prowler’s fragrance away; his plot is meticulous, flawless. Birds watch, stunned, confused by this new banded predator in their realm of pine and rot, shuffling inaudibly upon the boughs up above. What does he want? Why is he here? The cicadae have stilled their transparent wings, their shrillness has become nothing; the great green hoppers have long since vanished.

The tiny girl, her trauma runs deeply – inaccessible, like the pure-water veins of the mountain. It is brazen to believe that her fear will yield to his benevolence, his innocently fanciful idea. Though naivety trolled him forward, the young steed learns swiftly; they recoil together, and teal eyes beg forgiveness for the boundary encroached – but so briefly! Colour, noise, excitement; it triggers and bursts suddenly, startlingly, from the undergrowth and he stands amazed, breathless. Incredulous eyes behold the marvel that is the predator attacking, but the terrorized tone of the girl reels him back. In a split second he moves blindly to defend her – he knows not the threat of this kind.

Thighs coil tightly down, yet release right after with a power-packed surge; the stallion, with amply feathered wings ajar, hurtles into the dimming space between predator and prey (he is oblivious, he is the aim). He screams from depths yet unknown and snarls with the unbridled savageness of a stranger, a foe; ears are lost beneath wild, whirling tendrils and eyes flash belligerence as he defies this white-fanged face of death. Like two boulders they collide, one with cunning precision and the other with all of the martial quality of rock. Knives drive gruesomely into flesh, into the unblemished shoulder of the sun-kissed Warrior; he screams again, though its sound now is blood-curdling, suffering – this agony is nothing he has known.    

Heat fills his face, flying feathers blur his eyes, and he thrashes like a fish caught in talons. Teeth snap madly as his jaws lash, trying for any purchase he can manage, but the murderous feline is stuck fast upon him; vain are his struggles, mere helpless ambitions. He is stumbling sidewards, into the doe he defends. But he recalls those eyes once again, his kin watching brightly, and for them resolve sets back in. With a roar, a frenzied plunge of vast wings, the stallion defies the lull of gravity and lunges left around the place he’d left his charge. Like a beam in the arm, that props him up, and claws tear south from their hold; blood spews, hot, crimson, mingling with fear in the putrid, humid atmosphere.

A plan is forming – unfolding, and he unfurls burly hindquarters with every inch of strength he can find (adrenaline boils in his veins, anger writhes in his heart). The monster is huge, powerful; but perhaps it has lost some momentum. He aims the kick backwards, huge airborne hooves, while frantic eyes gambol forward in effort to move the dove – if still she stands frozen in place. The gaping wound upon him throbs, pounds and pulses, and dizziness toys with his balance; he stumbles, crashes to his knees, but scrambles desperately back up. This is a matter of survival.

Their fray creates a web of charged terror and hate so concentrated, it becomes tangible. The sickening smell of blood mingles with the budding flavor of fear. It thickens upon my tongue, upon each breath. Limbs draw out, struggling to haul my worn out body upward. Desperate to get beyond their reach. Red rimmed eyes behold the mastery of those titans, both suited for the art of war. In the past I had no appetite for violence and that is the case especially now. Noah squeals, his outrage morphs into a sound my sickened dread knows first-hand. A plea of suffering. Memories soar forward, warring for the same foothold.

I remember those knifes upon my haunch; the overwhelming weight of a monster dragging my lithe frame violently down, rendering me incapable of bucking the violation. An old ache swells to life, needles sting along the soft curve of my splashed rump. The marks are there, hidden beneath fur that grew back to conceal the abuse...I knew that tight coil of suffering. Every strand and curve. Lips peal back, releasing a breath of dismay as those mighty bodies slide against the floor. I couldn't move! Wings tighten, sheltering my sides in anticipation of a collision!

Noah thrashes left, pulling away and dislodging the attacker. For one breathless moment, I dread the fabrication that he'd take flight...run...But rather than flee, he retaliates and offers a solid kick! My heartstrings lurch, catching in the folds of my clenched throat. He got in a hit! The amber demon howls, but doesn't back down. My golden savior drops to his heavy knees, I shake in place...fixed like stone with locked legs that quake harder as the seconds pass. Threatening to give out.

Madness, the foul thrill of it… it descends upon him; grows from the churned earth he touches. It drowns his lungs with every breath in, each desperate gasp as he clings to the last of his crumbling innocence. It spreads like corrosive fog through his core, travels through the network of spewing, sucking veins like disease, hungry, wicked, pulsing - alive. He feels internal lull as beta-endorphins feed through his bloodstream - as his conscience withdraws; he drowns in the delicious drunkenness of adrenaline, of   this ridiculous new fearlessness, and teeters in his childish stupor. He is a warrior, it is his destiny - and he folds to the passion of his pain like a flower fails before the moon.

For a moment, his world falls dark.

The creature is savage, barbarous, relentless, and he is still coming. The stallion’s eyes are flashing, but for a tick in time. Bubbling tears gush from quavering, blonde-lashed rims, blood-shot cauldrons, seem (in those crawling seconds), to bleed the very terror that is ravaging his core, his soul. They fix hazily upon the toy princess just beyond reach of the devil, of himself; plummet dizzyingly to her darling, matchstick legs that seem unwilling to whisk her any further away to safety. The forest is still spinning, a crazed blur of bloody fury, flying feathers, strung saliva, and it is intoxicating, horrifying! He is wobbly as he pauses to catch his breath properly and lungs finally find their fill - oxygen brings him back to life.

His mind is clearing.

The hunter is circling.

Quickly move wretched legs, as the cruel cat stalks wide around his victim, wounded and vulnerable; a bird, grounded. The stallion indulges on a cocktail of hormones though, they feed him strength, clarity, and he finds himself watching with narrowed eyes from the middle of the ring. It is a fight to the death, without a doubt. Heavy knees tremble wildly as he begins to turn - though he is crippled, cumbersome, and his circle is slow. Hate is a thing he has not before known, but seeds root steadily and vines thicken through the chambers of his heart - the stranger… the fiend, will die. Rage is now a wildfire within him.

‘Destiny’, his thoughts chant. ‘Die!’

Aqua stare finds the monster’s thighs and notes the skin curve against cunning springs beneath - he is aware, if nothing else. He is learning. Those glistening, veteran eyes boar down viciously, and flesh tingles at their touch; the hero flinches, blinks, and the other is already airborne. Ghastly teeth, pristine blades with sickening tips, catch his attention and he braces, thinks - drives back down the surge of rude panic inside. Not this time. The predator is flying forward with those knives unleashed, and his quarry is ready; driving weight down, back… surviving. Haunches release with bursting power, propelling the determined horse left (because he cannot meet his foe head-on), and the right wing, now crimson with blood, fans out brazenly. He endeavours to fill those jaws, eyes, that evil face, with only the bristle of his feather.

Riding the same wave of momentum, he bends, curls, and seeks the same attack that found success before - he is raw, novice. His bulk hangs heavily left, freeing mostly the torn shoulder from exertion; still it churns out blood, and the repulsive stench is turning his gut. Visible is the limp with every stubborn stride. Once again, his forehand stiffens down (though not with quite the same capacity) and hind hooves gather into a backwards punt; they thrust in reverse below a flurry of filthy hair, desperate to feel that nauseating beef a second time.

I beg these matchstick appendages to flee, even as they tingle, warding my demands. ‘Move!’ My subconscious wails! Sultry tears defy my remaining barriers, they dribble down these heated cheeks while I stare at the combatants. Horrified…transfixed, an onlooker of the misfortune wrought from my selfish desire to be unchained. How could I have been so foolish? There wasn’t time to waste on guilt, but remorse was there…emerging on tattered wings from the distorted surface of my soul. The weighty, unearthly monster crashes to earth; sputtering feathers. I finch, shuttering…nostrils gasp apart as those abhorrent eyes snarl along my flesh. It was only for an instant. But that brief moment is all that I need to witness the malice and desperation rising from him like a miasma.

No…

Jowls inch apart, a groveling shriek emits just as he races for my unmanageable shell. Narrow legs vibrate, crumbling even before they feel the intensity of his body crashing into mine. I rock backwards, wings jut out…but their rise to defense is late. “Oomph,” the air is knocked from my chest as I collapse into the embrace of their callous world. Limbs flail, managing to curl halfway in an attempt to protect my vulnerable underside. There is heat, pressure…and then a spasm of affliction. My throat becomes a tangle of knots, shutters draw – swallowing the waves as they come. In that instance, valuable oxygen is cut off from these gasping lungs.

Then…after a dry, horrifying second of isolation, an unworldly sound emerges…shattering the humid air. My subconscious seethes, snarling at the end of her prison like a battered wolf. Fight! She growls, unwilling to surrender so easily. Feebly, (more on the instinct of self-preservation) than personal will…I turn, straining for the demon with teeth bared and eyes squinting against the anguish he inflicts. Mandibles snap, aiming for his shoulder or neck.

With baited breath he waits, relishes in the glory of pre-victory; eyelids are fastening, sealed tightly together, ears are strained back and listening - all are desperately anticipating that collision.

Unfortunately, it never comes.

Burly hindquarters are falling, plunging, easily short of their crouching target and great pastel hooves crash fruitlessly back to earth.

The rich light of the aging, afternoon sun is playing between restless needle-leaves and lazy boughs in the canopy, west. It is peaceful there… Long, lean shafts twist ever playfully in through the murky forest’s shade, drawing the discouraged worn, red eye of the novice quickly out from under that corrosive cloud of disappointment; he is tempted to flee towards it, to escape into the promise of this day’s end. The frantic pound of his lead-balloon heart seems to resonate so loudly, violently, all throughout his aching, tired frame; it rattles as vehemently as hail upon stone (alas, his confidence is as brittle as shale). Thoughts drift momentarily, as pain engulfs the transition of weight returning to earth – exposed nerve endings riot in the swish of the heavy air, beneath the stroke of wild mane; this is not his mission, neither here, own the horn he sought.

Knees and hocks work together to balance his trembling body in the heat of the moment (the split-second), post-kick, and as two discarded quills settle against trodden sod, the avian-limb curls to rest again alongside the sweating, heaving, slab of masculine flank – there was to be no rest however.

Those longing, sombre eyes sever their grip on the freedom beyond and ride the tapering skull’s motion around to the left. They are expecting to find the callous creature’s claws, those bloodthirsty fangs, again in motion, bearing down upon him like a bat out of hell, but they are startled to discover instead, the foe stealing swiftly away across the floor. Nostrils pitch a resentful snort through the musty air, and ears flatten angrily back into the swamp of luscious flaxen; ‘move, FASTER!’ his thoughts scold harshly. Tendons in his powerful neck tug cruelly at the gory gash and the skin dances hot, red around it, jerking hideously as the leg attached endeavours to follow the striped devil; he blunders through an awkward circle until he stands just shy of them in front - both time and momentum have been sacrificed.

Her terrorised shriek lingers on in his ears like the murder of beady-eyed crows haunting the branches overhead; their morbid, wishful confidence is regarded with rising apprehension, and they do little to inspire his courage.

It is becoming quickly clear, that he stands no chance against the limber, evil serpent.

Frayed mind grows taught around a sudden, far-fetched plan (it could swing either way – could be disastrous), and the stallion lunges suddenly for the skirt of trees which had seen his initial arrival. Molars grind audibly together, clenching brutally against surging, sobering agony, but his haunches thrust him relentlessly forward at the rate of desperation. Flashing thighs on either side graze rough timber as his bulk slides on into a glade, and then each wing unfurls into glorious span. There he drives hard into a sprint. Wind whistles excitedly against bouncing ears; ribbons of white-gold whip along behind, and with each feathery downstroke air gathers beneath, around, caressing his sodden self – and at last lifts it.

Like a whale in the ocean he so cherished, the warrior becomes brilliantly graceful, agile; like a tiger, gliding soundlessly through grass.

Higher and higher and higher! Sharp eyes narrow to dissect the alien forest glowing golden beneath.

When he finds them, the fiend and the fay, lungs relinquish heavily that anxious breath within – she appears alive, from what he can see (he has lost track of time and he worries). The horse circles like an eagle above, without shadow or scent to betray (he is in his element), and whiskered lips curl into something unfittingly snide, sinister. Though the wound stings still with every beat, it does not hinder his flight and wings dip when he angles this formidable equine missile into position. Like a cormorant upon a fish, he plunges, swoops down, with artful feathers guiding velocity; the spindly tips of the trees do not trouble him as he passes like a boulder among them (even as they whip and scold his intrusion). He is determined now, not to fail. Banking on the art of surprise, he again holds his breath – this is it!

Forelegs straighten ahead of him, aiming hard hoof-rims down. The plan doesn’t discriminate – the skull, the spine, and the hips, each present a perfectly worthy target for punishment.

Ivories seal over the rippled, muscular arm of the predator; but such meek efforts couldn’t make a dent in his power over me. It wasn’t enough…my failing strength resists. His sweaty, dusted musk fills these flared nostrils. Incisors clench, bracing against the waves of pain as his feet scrap and hook over my body. A keel sound rises from between my lips as he continues to shift, gaining leverage with each raking heel. Pinions strain pitifully, their energy reserves are bone dry. He presses me down, straddling my spine between his legs, digging those nasty toes into my hips.

The grasp on his ankle slips, losing ground.

I brace for the feel of teeth when his groan of pain reaches my ears, but the demon seems to enjoy toying with me – he doesn’t bite in retaliation. I hear the winged king, but his presence has become a fading ray in the corner of my mind. He is a glimmer of hope amid a darkening world. Mini stumbles toward it, fueling my tormented soul with hate and breathing on the fire, my will to survive. ‘We have to’, she whispers, cutoff by the raspy laughter which fills the hot air.

For one harrowing moment, my pained, quivering muscles grow still. Ears tilt sideways; there was no mistaken the fading drum of feet. Disappearing! He…I imagine scene of his sprint, his escape…those foaming waves plunge my spirit into dark waters. My throat tightens and the precious air in these lungs dissipate. No…fresh tears spring forth; my subconscious crumbles. I hear his garbled speech – unfamiliar words that I’d never translate. Lips inch apart, releasing him and allowing my head a final boon as it falls against the ground. Pressure and pain grow in my chest.

‘Please…’ she whimpers, but I don’t have the strength to fight any longer.  

An ebony face springs in the front of my mind. Chocolate eyes are narrowed, glinting with the same savagery as my tormentor. ‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper to that angry face. A hot breath lavishes the delicate corridors of my neck; enticing the dirty hair and skin beneath to writhe in dread. His teeth scrap dangerously, following the hot path his tongue takes. My body resists, quaking and tensing…but these red rimmed eyes flutter shut as another wave of pain threatens to extinguish my awareness.

Branches crack… thunder? I blink, irises tilt up just in time to see a winged creature dive past the snarling canopy. A golden eagle. The crushing weight is flung from mine! A spark of hope ignites in my chest, lungs gasp a breath of air – sharpening my consciousness!

Horrendous…

The gruesome phenomenon of skull imploding is a heinous insult on every one of his high-strung senses, and the feeble gut inside twists, sickened, driving a wave of feverish nausea through his recoiling core.

It is too late.  

Feathers whistle wildly as the arms beneath beat winds of frantic remorse against the peeling carpet, the undergrowth (twig and leaf alike) - the tiger and the mare. He is sorry, instantly, but the foe crashes face-first as the sharp rim of his brilliantly rigid hooves collide and pursue; the menace lies thereafter unsettlingly motionless, not even the black-barred chest trills for oxygen. Equine hindquarters fall in rapid succession, crumbling deliberately right to avoid crushing the girl, as well… Long hair (tail and leg), spills rushingly behind, over and across flaccid limbs, and for a fleeting sec, the stallion looks rather like an Accipitridae perched above his meal. The sponge below his stiff fore, pulses disturbingly for a few moments longer, spouting the taste of steaming blood into the atmosphere - into panting, pumping nostrils; the villain is half buried, broken, rammed beneath earth by deadly force.

Dread is etched through the expanding labyrinth of lines on his young face, golden and white, and his skin twitches and trembles as the truth of this homicide rings home.

“De…”

The scent of death envelopes him, feeds the fear mushrooming behind glazed, burning, red-blue eyes, and though his veins feel as though they might ignite at any second, the blood within flows shockingly cold. Red soaks slowly up and stains clean ivory plumes, before he draws away from the corpse; out of the situation which has scarred his innocence. Thoughts cave to that bright, enthusiastic wall of eyes for comfort, but his family are stunned, astonished, staring widely from the bleachers - even the finest of the island’s warriors had not seen such savage violence. ‘What do I do?’ his conscience begs, cries, but they cannot pull clear of bewilderment, that deafening silence.

Shoulders flinch visibly as the breath held at length between them expels, and he turns his face towards the shadowy fence of dark, silent trees to the west; the sun sits low between them now, reaching with long rigid fingers to brush the tears from his cheeks. How he craves warmth now - even despite the clouds of thick sweat building upon him, the foam lathered, drying, where buttocks had rubbed in frenzy together. Wings droop jadedly, suddenly, as the ligaments binding them fail at last - agony returns amid grief, and he can feel the rude sting of air against exposed flesh. Fatigue courses through him, pressing his thundering heart with weight like a boulder, until he can bear it no longer.

Though conscious, he slips sidewards towards the bosom of the forest and lets the mass of his skull tumble back into its cushion.  

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