Every so often, every few hours, Noah nips unmercifully at his skin…
There is still an element of doubt clouding his mind, suspicion, for it seems to him that their escape from those rabid soldiers and Helovia, has come all too freely; they had tracked his darling dove before, after all. His guard hasn’t lowered since their arrival on this spring-kissed prairie nearly a week ago already - vision of foaming jaws and canine-wings haunt his sleep, trying him, willing away any sense of contentment that dares challenge the stain of worry - and though the image of his healing, blossoming family fills his gallant heart with hope and warmth, he cannot allow himself to dwell for long in their joy.
This cannot last, can’t be real.
There is a breeze, though brisk and chilly, lacking the same wintry bite that has become a rather miserable normal in the months gone by; dew still dampens the soft, tussocky loam through which his heavy, restless hooves graze and it and steam too, rises like a smooth veil of fog all around them. The basin and its own remarkable, revolting weather system (or so quickly became his opinion), held little prejudice towards either sunlight or moonlight, spoiling any hour available with harrying, icy wind and deep, snarling shadows. Neither threatens their comfort here; the field is vast and flowers grin cheerfully at the gentle, golden sun, odd oaks with sprawling emerald canopies reach far into the blue yonder, and a haze of tiny insects bathe in the quiet morning ambience.
The Eagle is committed to concealing his discomfort - at least as well as he can - for his dove has found a fresh, fond, and sound perspective in motherhood; the helpless babe she nurtures (with beautiful, maternal devotion), has filled the fissure left in wake of terror and agony, and even the visible strain etched through the palest part of her complexion, appears to be easing. Anyway, he cannot be sure… It seems foolish to presume that such a nightmare could so easily be pushed aside, but he stands as their tireless guardian, come what may. It's the best he feels he can do.
A great cloud of darkness, a storm - chaos - brews along the horizon, far, far behind them…
Pensive blue gaze descends momentarily from on high, from watch, to touch on Nora and the coloured, gangly alien that now lies like a starved corpse below wafting, wheaten grass-heads; for a split-second the new father’s heart lurches, she appears motionless, perhaps not breathing, but one pixie toe flinches in slumber and he sighs heavily before turns wistful eyes away.
A flicker of movement against the northern skyline pulls his notice suddenly and golden twins press forward towards it, straining for wind of sound. Nostrils pump greedily at the passing air, pulling pollen and spring dust, though it is devoid of anything useful and a hearty sneeze erupts soon after. Unmistakably a horse, the silhouette folds into the murky breadth of the earth and as his narrowing stare adjusts to the latter (from brighter to darker), he finds the other turning and tossing about. One knee lifts in wary measure as the song of the dove trills through the peace, then drives the hoof below down hard. Ears waver with hesitation as the Eagle tries in vain to make sense of the situation, but his thoughts are already in disarray, and he can muster no sense of confidence.
Never the less, as the other equid begins to tumble, the winged-one bursts into a thunderous sprint and his voice calls out boldly, “…are you injured?” |
