Sun soaked skin begins to leak hot, damp insecurity, but he stands transfixed as she unfolds from the centre of the mountain like a lovely butterfly from her cocoon. From across the way, hesitant eyes trace the quiet movement of her skull as the bi-toned gems upon its surface absorb the setting; her concentration descends. She explores slowly, methodically perhaps, like a child exploring the vast world she’d been born into; porcelain perfection teeters gingerly above those lean limbs he’d studied many times already, they seem reluctant to carry her any further forward for now. The stallion’s gaze seems to settle, to focus in, and his mind for a moment, forgets the uncertainty which has delayed his journey. She is captivating, and he quickly becomes her slave in the flawlessness of the moment

There is movement behind, ‘herd mates’ hustling about as the morning brightens all around, but Noah stands still and oblivious, he does not flinch like he might have ordinarily (he has been hiding in plain sight!). How curiosity gnaws at him as she inspects the doorstep by her toes, the feeling blooms within him like vivid winter blossoms; and as they crave sunlight, he leans nearer, drawn to radiance. Long ivory quills cling to the near flank, hiding the deliciousness of her dainty feminine curve; the feathers skirting are lush, clean, which astounds him – how is it that earth doesn’t mar her? His mood is changed, lifted, and a small smile tempts the corners of his mouth to crack.

Moments pass, maybe hours, he cannot tell.

Lashes close, sealing a seamless portrait of her against the black backdrop. They open again almost drunkenly, and sudden dread grips his heart; it squeezes so fiercely that his lungs sob for air. Enchanting, delicate features of her face now point his way, tiny ears are trained upon him, pink and blue pools swim easily across the distance (yet small), and he is startled, stupid, lost. Like the soft melody of the sea he so craves, her thoughts arise into the open, words lost amid the foreign string of her tongue – he nods, lower lip quivering, near flapping in the mild wind. As she draws a deep breath, fairy nostrils flared yet still toy, he wonders brazenly what message is born to her hungering tastebuds; whether he exists, or if it is the wild, regard hue of pine-mountains that invigorates her.

Then once again she speaks and forward fixed ears pounce eagerly upon the familiar syllable; “hi!” is the answer, so sudden its sound devours the tenor of her own. He is bashful before her – a servant boy caught so unexpectedly in the company of his princess; immediately his enthusiasm retracts, and visibly he appears to blush. Allowing half-mast gaze to return, he notes that she is looking south, just short of is mask, and like a stinging slap he remembers, the grass! As she speaks again (in her strange lingo), teeth place the soggy gift by his feet – once bitten, twice shy, and then he takes two strides in reverse. He inspects it for only a second thereafter, and realises the care he’d intended had failed somewhere along the line (much of it seemed bruised, and more still, was cloaked in saliva…).

Neat ears are set forward and he glances by them with a discerning eyes; the impression she gave was not like that terror he’d known before. “Food,” he remarks with less hastiness this time round, investing enormous energy into ensuring she understands that the grass is supposed to be eaten – modestly, he spares a glance by the floor near her to see whether the previous offerings lay still upon the alter. He is tempted to demonstrate, but quickly reprimands his ridiculousness – starvation certainly looked less lovely. Banishing the thought, he addresses her wellbeing artfully. “You,” lips brush by the clean, pink scars of his own before gesturing (not too) near her, “ok?”

He feels calm, surprisingly so, and even meets the whisper of her eye with a rising smile.  

Noah

I was born a warrior
I was born a warrior