Andarin: The Mountains: chapal;

Afternoon found Enola Gay strolling boredly through Andarin, Passchendaele stumbling along behind her as best as he could. She didn’t much like being ignored; she did so like to be entertained, and it was terribly difficult to accomplish alone. She didn’t like it here. Her winds did not flow as freely, could not bring her as much news as they did on the wide open sand of Solira – they got caught in the trees, tripped over the long grass, lost over the creeks. She trusted them as ever but the messages they sent were feeble in comparison to bygone days; in a huff of irritation, she began to pick up her pace such that she might take to the skies in her happy eagle form (without a thought for poor Passchendaele, always left behind… she did always say she wouldn’t make much of a mother).

But, quite suddenly, one tendril of wind brought an unexpected and welcome scent.

She stopped and tilted her head, sniffing, listening. It was weak with this air but most certainly Chapal – alive and well, he seemed to have found her yet again. She couldn’t control her heart from racing; no practiced logic, no conscious indifference, could supersede the body’s physical responses. No thought could overrule instinct; no effort could undermine love. She didn’t bother to try.

“Come, Passchendaele.”

A few minutes later, Passchendaele’s black eyes were wide as they drew near to Chapal. This horse, with his stern gaze and crackling skin, felt oddly familiar to him – the child stood tucked close (rather fearfully, I may say) to his mother and waited to find out why. He watched curiously as she drew near to Chapal, close for a moment without touching, exchanging breath and warmth; and then blinked a she pressed against the stallion, her body seeming to melt into him, her head tucked under his, her eyes closing in something resembling bliss.

Enola Gay? Bliss?

Who on earth was this bloke?