So overwhelming is his dislike for confinement (caves particularly) - the sinister dark, stagnant air and cold, shadow-stained walls - that he lingers there, in the open night above the earth’s gaping jaws, until the ravenous gloom has all but swallowed the milky-white waft of silken tendrils in her wake. With discontent glossing their vivid teal character, his eyes behold the world aglow for a final time (as though it might be the last), and the dull, smoky air seems visibly to turn and eddy across that bubbling, magma-pit before him, like wild water; Noah sucks hard through clenched molars and flared nostrils alike, as if the taste of life has never been so sweet.

The fresh, enticing heat of her perfume coats thickly the worn, rickety path he slowly follows and pale, pursed lips bounce and jerk barely inches above it as his hooves struggle against the foreign surface of crumbling, wet stone. The sound of eight hooves clicking warily along the ill-lit corridor (the dove’s are lighter, still brighter), resonates wildly to drown out the warning hiss up ahead, though his ears already ring with apprehension, burning anticipation - it is more than just a cold void around him. To both his surprise and initial relief, a lone vein of that fiery pool runs deep to his right; it throws a minor rug of comforting warmth across his tense golden shoulders. In place of choking blackness, a murky, dull hue engulfs them - just penetrable - and when at last startled pupils adjust, he can just make out the start of savage rows of teeth along the ceiling above.

That cloak of comfort falls suddenly to the verge.

”A mouth indeed…” he mumbles inaudibly with a shiver of worry descending his spine. A baited glance tempts backwards to see if those rocky red lips have sealed snugly behind.

The pair continue blindly down that throat nonetheless.

He fails to notice the pattern of similar concern melting into the stiffness of her pace and the acid stress tarnishing the sweet aroma she exudes; his attention has become unfortunately narrow-minded, involuntarily so, and the haunting howl of his own paranoia reeks havoc on his conscience. The velvety bridge between his pumping nares deviates brazenly forward to find the padded warmth of reality, her trembling skin, and in the same moment the underworld becomes suddenly aglow with throbbing light. Her glorious accent rises to meet his confusion, to sooth it, and his gaze wanders incredulously to trace the visible outlines of an unbelievably broad room. ”How?” is all his strangled understanding can assemble and he steps to stand beside her with an up-lifted chin.

The heart of the earth is ablaze beside them, and brilliant heat emanates to lull the frantic chill from his core; he admires it tentatively, suspiciously, with coiled, strained hindquarters - though what his plan of action is, should the bowels of this monster unhinge, is a mystery even to him. His brain begins finally to hurt and his eyes retire to the sanctuary of normalcy Nora offers; her face (when she turns it back towards him), seems aloft, giddy like the flight of a leaf, and a tender smile is lured by the image of her, into his softening expression.

Silence embraces them then, but to Noah it feels cosy and full, rather than the gnawing, lonely frigidness he might have expected.

When she speaks, his mellowed gaze is still settled upon her; the dove stands before a perfect halo of light and she is stunning to behold. He does move gradually, however, slides around to her front - perhaps a little closer than he might normally - and the lovely atmosphere (combined with her charming company) begins to loosen the bind of worry on his mind. Carefully and thoughtfully he reads the measure of concentration unfolding through her brow-line and nods (offering predictable, gentle encouragement), at her mention of the cave. The words to follow however catch him entirely off guard and the enduring, patient smile he wears gives birth instantly to something more unsettled, stricken, panicked. Before anything sensible forms across his tongue in response, and above the frenzied pulse in his ears, she continues - slowly - eventually revealing a small snippet of her past.

As though he’d fallen back from the brink of purgatory, a sigh purges from his lungs. ”I get it,” he announces with ill-timed vigour, riding on the new tide of relief as it floods through his being. Then, recovering some poise, he asks her, ”feels good? Like home?” Noah, only bold enough to explore the dank depths of one miserable cave as a colt, was so terrorised by the screeching, flapping resident bats, that any thought of the underworld today, fills him with dreadful anxiety.

Noah

I was born a warrior
I was born a warrior