How many days would pass with no sign of life from this gifted soul? It was unanswerable by anyone save his god, but the golden lad still held out hope. Midas often brushed muzzle across smooth shell to feel for signs of life and slight warmth. He would turn the child with gentle care every few hours in mirroring example done by avian brethren for ages past. Fur and feather, frostfall moss and soft grass lined the cradle anew every other evening. Tender care was given with steadfast assurance that just maybe expended efforts would produce fruit.

Only a few days prior to hopeful hatching, Midas felt the desire to hunt for his charge. With a little time and much failure, his efforts forged success. Carefully, Throats general took time to field dress and wrap each carcass solidly in brown banana leaves—the job was a messy, unrewarding task that would prove useful in maintaining freshness. Midas buried each body near the edge of a great magnolia; it was luck that nights were still cold enough to preserve what remained underground.

It had been a long day, each step a telling sign of stress and weariness.

Recent gossip swam on all corners of his mind. Cera’s mentor had disappeared with a prisoner in tow; this disappointing news took heart to a new low. It shook him to the core to think that his trust had been misplaced in a faulty soul. A shrilling screech rose to the clouds, ears perked and eyes trailed curiously toward his shadowed cradle just ahead. Again the cry came again, stronger this time, heart skipped then thundered in a sudden rush of energy and excitement. Had it finally happened?

Trotting now, Midas approached the cradle to find a broken shell and a damp fledging gasping and shrilling calling for nourishment. Its newly born body absent feathers—pale beak wide and leading down to a purplish throat and pink gut, cute wasn’t a vocal word that the Pegasus would use for this creature. Regardless, he felt the tugging bonds affection form, simply through the pain and pride of hatching this small creature himself.

"Hello little one..."

Admiring the beauty of it all wasn’t meant to last, after only a moment the cries got more persistent and demanding. Ears slide back along his skull automatically when piercing squeals got louder, knowing what would come next and finding no pleasure in what was about to happen. Midas turned away and revealed his emergency food stash for the little avian.

Taking the fish from ground first he held the stiff, smelly thing down and started to pull it apart with his teeth. Already nausea settled in his stomach, the drive to feed a crying creature was the only thing keeping dinner where it was supposed to remain. Taking it apart slowly, piece by piece, trying to be careful of small bones that might choke a small bird—Midas finally gathered enough flesh to start feeding his hatching a morsel at a time. Taking a small tangy slice between his lips, Midas slowly lowered it over the bird and dropped it down the gapping mouth.