Miette
Some time before the sun rises when the nights (all of them), are thick and cold, the eagle lifts like a ghost from their company and disappears alone into the snug swaddle of darkness. On this night however, the little swallow alive is ready! Silence hangs like impenetrable fog in the chilly, black air. There is not a single sound to be heard - though she listens all the same, keenly, wonderingly - and somewhere beneath the cage of rigid ribs pressed against her cheek, the familiar, friendly life-pulse of the dove ticks away. Pale blue eyes peer curiously from beneath their warm quilt of feather and down, impatient and eager, studying the sunken silhouette of the stallion who slumbers (always) across the way. Her skin trembles with wild excitement, her heart flutters in frenzied anticipation - and then it happens, he moves; Da slips from the invisible perimeter of their nest and his luminous silvery tail gleams in the wishy-washy moonlight, before melting into oblivion beyond. With lips pressed tightly against the simmer of a giggle, the filly pushes her soft, velveteen nose beneath warm breast; so long has she been waiting tonight - fatigue gnawing away at motivation - that the plan of stealth and silence has been altogether lost. Clumsily, hastily, she slithers from the cover of that wing and it falls from her bony hip with a muffled thud upon the prairie-grass. The swallow is too distracted to notice, her icy, eager eyes are trained upon that last point where he’d vanished; groggy limbs stumble into motion and as she collects speed the invigorating whistle of wind fills her ears. At first she is lost, galloping along an empty, endless, ebon plane and the heart which thrashes the beat of anticipation within her, sinks below a hungry tide of disappointment. Puny face tilts a little to the left and the hiss of gushing gale lulls - a self-taught technique - allowing her access to the whispering world all around. The sound of the eagle’s gait, the distinct thunder of his massive hooves, thrums vividly ahead - it fills her with delight (for any other time, it would suggest the conclusion of any time spent apart). He is near! young thoughts beam, and though she grows ever weary, adrenaline fuels a fleet-footed sprint. She finds him ascending and leaps alongside with bold, brazen effort, casting odd-matched feathers aside, just like he. Together they will snatch away stars! Yet the sound of his voice carries down, and heroic bulk falls prematurely back to earth; the child fails to hear, barely sees him, for she is bounding, flapping and bucking, in a desperate bid for lift. All to soon the adventure is over, and as the shadows recede to the liberating contrast of dawn, the swallow’s frail form collapses to sleep, safe again beneath the blanketing wing of Ma. When next she stirs from the slumber-realm of wonderful impossibly, Miette is allowed time only to drink her fill, before Da begins to lead them away. With bright, prancing steps she travels a short while glued to the familiar flank of the dove. They walk for a long time (hours and hours), pausing frequently to rest and feed, while the foal revels restlessly in that potent thrill of adventure. Always at the forefront of her interest (and more or less the topic of all conversation between adults), the stark, square outline of an impressive pinnacle looms ever closer. Their pace slows when at last they were near, and the dense, strange shade that it throws, provokes a surge of shivering through her downy, painted coat. Before tufty, spongey grass morphs into stiff, unforgiving cobble, the eagle pauses and Mettle notices him stiffen visibly; he turns a second later, and the rigid uncertainty underlying the word, “wait…” demands her obedience. Feeding on the nervous, tense energy in the air, the swallow presses close against the comforting warmth of Ma. |
@Damascus
