The little swallow gambolled with light, springing strides through the sea of whiskered gold, while Noah watched on with an ever dimming eye; he was troubled yet by the harrowing memories of feline soldiers and their winged, canine slaves. The tiny creature’s frivolous naivety was a gift, or so he kept telling himself, a distraction from the mundane pressure to protect, his duty - guarding this precious family - which had all but taken the topmost priority in his life (at the sacrifice of everything else). Nights were spent far from the cosy, replenishing wings of sweet slumber, further still from the stew of virile impulse which had driven both his motivation and sense of ambition, in times past.
Noah was failing - if not his beloved dove and their daughter - within himself.
He was falling.
The winged stallion walked slowly, with the dead weight of lethargy (of internal conflict and indecision), dulling each stride. Nora, she who had stolen his love, his heart and his innocence, lingered among the tangled web of his toxic thoughts; the flame which had burned so fiercely had wilted, through no fault of her own. With every inch of his being, he cared for her, loved her, but something had changed between them, perhaps someone, and like a steel stake, there seemed to be a new divide between them. Pensively he eyed Miette, the apple of her mother’s eye, and couldn't help the sudden surge of resentment which curdled his affection. As she frolicked and cavorted through the sunshine ahead, the eagle wondered what would happen if he'd just turned then, and left her.
The thought lingered in his head like a niggling itch; he paused, conflicted, torn in two by the desire to be free, and the need to protect something so pure - a creature that he was wholly responsible for. As though scouting the area behind for witnesses, his sea-blue eyes swivelled around, a decidedly agitated expression thick around their brooding gape. No, he scolded, stamping a feather hoof with startling ferocity into the soft carpet of grass beneath. And so, lost beneath the tide of ill-mood, he continued towards those jagged mountains that had for long risen in silent guard against the perils beyond Denocte. |
