Though clearly it is without the harshness of winter, the wind in the wee hours of the morning is biting, cold. Frost ices the cropped, wiry grass carpeting the prairie – it crunches softly beneath his heavy tread, wetting the thick fringe of hair about oncoming hooves – and gloomy, moonlit skin shivers ferociously. Nevertheless, he strikes out through the lonely pre-dawn darkness (like he always does) and is soon trotting through the gloriously vast openness, along a beaten rabbit trail that has become fairly familiar. The eagle looks forward to these sessions, time spent thinking - working through melancholy memories - and otherwise revelling in the gift of peaceful solitude; while menial tasks and duties were been gladly left to rot behind in the basin ( collecting firewood...), training was an inherent habit, and one he couldn’t imagine living without. Flared nostrils suck hard, dining on the burning, bitter air; it inspires him, invigorates, and feeds fresh clarity through his mind. As sinew warms beneath the chilled canvas of silver and gold, Noah breaks into a hearty canter, covering the soft, fertile loam with reckless ambition – they had been alone for days, there was no one to disrupt. With the wind rushing around him, thrilling and enticing, buffeting face and stinging slitted eyes, wings can hardly resist the temptation; feathers fan outwards, rippling, whispering wild anticipation, and within seconds they burst downwards, eager for lift. “Da!” The weight of the world crashes down upon him like boulders, broken from a cliff. “Miette, where’s Ma!?” he calls down in a fluster, the note of paternal tenderness visibly strained through his voice. Hooves crash back down prematurely, fiercely to earth, rumbling, fumbling along as brazen weight doubles down upon them; knees buckle, stagger, for the fragile child is suddenly beside him, sidestepping and bounding with all the voracious speed of a lunatic fly. Wistful arms stretch awkwardly upwards and one glistening eye strains down towards her. The eagle has not the excellent manoeuvrability like the dove, and it takes every inch of his strength to avoid a collision – all the while twiggy legs cavort, overjoyed for this taboo adventure. Beneath his breast, Noah’s heart pounds like the march of a thousand war-bound soldiers. He seeks a quicker path home, cross country, leaving the friendly, meandering trail long behind; guiding his brazen, blissful daughter until the slumped form of sleeping Nora emerges beneath the first breath of dawn. The draining nature of her role was lost to his simple, masculine mind; he had energy enough to work (train), play and bring her flowers – his delicate dove slept often, rested and spent gentle time with the babe. “Nora…” lips utter softly, gingerly, desperately brash enough to induce a response. “It’s Miette… … well, il a faim!" Another stunning day surrounds them, stimulating a mutual decision to venture north-east. Since Miette’s birthday, the alien silhouette of boxy, towering mountains has loomed as silent witness in their life; those murky, granite-looking planes are the first thing the light touches in the morning, and likewise, burn red before the sinking sun. In recent days, it has broached many a conversation - Nora seems eager, no doubt spurred by the prospect of caves) - and with the lanky foal now able and willing to travel, the time mulling on the familiar, pleasant plateau has drawn to an end. The eagle leads them at a pace that his daughter seems comfortable with; whether he walks slowly or briskly, her brand-new legs tire all too quickly and he finds that both hunger and fatigue ravage her motivation easily. Waiting – biding time – is something he is unused to, it unsettles him and while they dally to the rear, he finds occupation scouring different paths for taste of the unfamiliar (which really, is everything). Soon enough, the inexplicable structure – least of all mountain – stands like a great daunting obstacle in front of them; a miracle, a labyrinth of roofless corridors, like nothing his eyes have ever touched on before. The eagle beholds it warily, shifting with new restlessness as he lingers in its cold, lifeless shade. Certainly, his expectation mere hours before had been anticipating a simple formation of natural origin, and he turns, words trapped behind silent astonishment, to view the reaction of his dove; velvet nose extends in fond gesture, for their quirky, unmarred bond was something that offered much security. It was as his disbelieving gaze swivelled back away, that the sheen of an ash-white hide snagged his notice. The hue was unusual, lovely - familiar? Impossible… A harsh snort erupts from slim nostrils, but he dares the idea into fruition, taking a baited step onto the unforgiving surface of stone. “Noxia?” he calls, voice uncharacteristically tense as the bleak chill of the eerie castle envelopes him. Feathers fasten apprehensively around his barrel and he shifts a stern look by Miette. “Wait,” a firm tone instructs, glancing after to the pretty bi-coloured eyes of his lover. "s'il vous plaît..." |
