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.