Quite indulged by the burly partition of Midas’s primed body, Africa found her previously flailing composure return rather too quickly- blood drowning the fear from even the furthest limits of her dappled body. A choking sense of foolish ineptness, erupted into flushing embarrassment in place of the latter, and Africa knew the grey skin beneath her tear stained cheeks was blushing uncontrollably. That was not to say she was unappreciative. Actually, two significant milestones had been achieved this day, and she accepted the weight of these lessons with humble diligence. She was growing up in a sense, maturing by way of this encounter as a whole, and a new line of thinking seemed to swell.

An overwhelming sense of belonging cloaked the raw young horse- she was from the Throat, and as she retreated with haste to the shelter a craggy granite cliff face she made sure to arc the curve of her neck a little (though arrogance held no place in the humility of her personality). Although the withdrawal could not disguise her gutlessness, Africa’s eyes trained to her ‘brother’ industriously. She refused to accept any excuse allowing helplessness unchain her involvement. Instead she seized this perfect opportunity to bear witness to Midas’s profession and be taught- even if war still found no enjoyment in her peaceful, gentle soul.

Africa turned and the inexperience of her unchipped hooves scattered stone as she did so; a stark contrast to the astute manner of Midas’s steps. She frowned inwardly, concentrating and noted that greater care should indeed be taken with even the tasks she thought to be most trivial. Tucking the curve of her rump against the rough cold wall, she leaned back (though not to find comfort while Midas locked her own opponent into battle) and let her eyes discover the arts of his labour. She never wondered of the whereabouts of the glowing bird-creature that he had travelled with that day- Africa still held no understanding of the significance of such a partnership. In the same way, the grey horse had not recognized the worth or reason behind the strange dressing which circled his neck, resting just above the winged stallions breast. Yes she had seen it, but shyly and soon enough distracted, she had not given it much thought. Now she watched with plaguing interest as shining armour (though she did not know the word) grew across his rippling hide; wrapping against his haunches and concealing his great wings; even mimicking her enemy with horns of his own. Africa was astonished as she watched on with ever widening eyes. Magic indeed, the yearning desire to gain knowledge of such wonders burned deep within her aching chest.

Midas attacked then, and the passive mare’s lips opened inelegantly as she was both moved and troubled by the colours of war; she fought to watch, it was her duty, but it was certainly not something she would treat herself to again soon (if she could help it).

The persistent fog dithered, unnoticed about their fetlocks and Africa could still feel that prickle fingering her flinching hide; the horrid stallion’s eyes still stealing lusting glances from her direction. Although the threat had eased, the sensitive young mare felt distaste slick across her saliva-soaked tongue- impulsively; obliviously, her twitching lips found a feather and fondled it about for a second. Then she plucked it and let it fall away, a soft puff of breeze pulled it safely from her feet, playing with it as it fell to rest amongst a cluster of loose stone. To her, it was as though she had never strayed from the battle at hand, and Africa continued to observe as Crash retaliated, sustaining a heavy, cutting blow to his shoulder- his bother increasingly apparent. She did not smile though, even as injury befell the brute, instead she winced uncomfortably, her billowing heart lurching on impact. The battle went on.