What can he possibly do though? The imploring, sobering note in her voice when it simmers to the surface, strikes a grim chord in his heart. Tender eyes drown helplessly in anguished bi-coloured pools - glassy sisters reaching out for sanctuary, tormented by fear, agony and desperation - and he feels that she looks frailer now in the flimsy, floating daybreak, than she did as a sorry sack of bones cowering beneath threshold thicket, at their first meeting. The connection is fleeting. Salty tears form stiff rivulets down the silvery cheek she bears and, as she slides from his care (that negligible amount of comfort he knows how to give), his lips venture lovingly, achingly alongside to nuzzle them away. A haze of tiny, brittle wings stir to life around them, disturbed, aroused from languid stupor by shuffling, matchstick legs and the painted, writhing body each support; surely these swarming, sunbathing insects should have long been tucked away in readiness for the immersion of winter’s frigid tempest and ensuing blankets of ice - certainly these had already made a miserable environment in the northernmost, Helovian valley. Courting birds twitter and sing, swooping between trees, the males - dressed most ostentatiously - fanning their long, elaborate tail-feathers in a display of inherent romance. The eagle finds it queer and thoughts dwell there amongst the untimely stew of animation (inwardly glad for distraction), contemplating too as eyes drift yonder, the subtle sheen of spring-time green on skeletal oak limbs; why is this land not asleep? When his focus returns - hesitantly, though in earnest - the silver and gold stallion finds his poorly lover hunched forward, coiling horribly to each invisible downtick of labour; wings droop heavily from her bloated midriff like wilted flowers, there is strange stiffness as she staggers and the mask which overwhelms that dainty, chiselled skull is as foreign to him as the mild world that surrounds them. He is reluctant to look. Her lips sink down towards the dewy loam and trembling blonde whiskers follow in a show of vain sympathy, for the truth of his powerlessness is difficult to shoulder; with wide, glazed eyes he traces the line of folding limbs beneath her and commiseration is lost beneath the shrill ring of alarm. Was she bitten? To the rising sting of urgency, he begins to search the convulsing contours of her collapsed frame, delving beneath the distortion of her movement - each thrust, every heave - with frightened eyes. “Nora?” …he begs with a pitiful voice, demanding with unbridled selfishness that she reassure him. The affliction of fear tears savagely at his sensibility and he reaches with unhinged teeth for grass, hair, feather (of his own). Feverishly he paces, from one end of her to the other, feeding on the feeble, frantic nature of each bleat fallen. His dove drives those narrow toes as far out as each leg will allow; they shake and squirm on the intake. “Lena!” he calls out, distraught - that was her name, wasn’t it? “…help her!” Please, help her… |
