Noah looked to the right side of the caravan behind them, noting how the grass just off the side of the road swayed in the breezes he wished he were on. As it were, he was not, and was there at the edge of the wagon because he could not fly. He could barely even move without pain. Despite that, sitting still bore the same pain; he was in it now, sitting there with his shoulder and head against the caravan. There was a useless and pathetic air about him. He could feel it himself, not blind to his pitiful plight, an image of honor felled and tarnished.

Atop of this, Elann seemed a bit far off from him. Whereas before he wouldn’t have minded it, having adored the quiet between them during the beginning of the trip, but following their fight he feared as if something was afoot with her behavior. The few words she did speak to him were of her engagement, asking if he was alright or if he needed anything. The answer was the same each time: “I’m doing fine” or “I’m alright” or “It hurts”. There was little else to say and they weren’t differing in their meaning, they also were honest in their saying. It had been hours since her last check-in, so he was left to think whatever he wished of the situation. The thoughts weren’t entirely good given his mindset.

Noah lost track of how long he had been sitting on the edge, his mind floating from topic to topic; his eyes shifting from object to object; his conscious zipping in and out, dozing. Over the hours, as they waned, he grew more pained in his side but didn’t will himself to ask for any medicine. He felt the driver of the other wagon’s eyes on him. He was staring at the downed Kelvic, and Noah could see it plainly. A few times already Noah had caught the man’s gaze because he felt himself being stared upon.

He didn’t hear Elann coming, nor did he feel her until she was seated beside him. The presence of her body stopping the wind from hitting his injured side in full was what brought his attention to her there. Noah looked to her hand on his leg and then up to her. As he turned, his cheek was grazed with her lips before she pulled back and asked her question.

He shrugged his shoulder, wincing afterwards, causing them to settle again. “Not really,” he voiced. “They’re frustrating.” Noah’s words were mumbled and bored sounding. Yet, a perk came to him as the birds flew overhead, hoping from way bank of trees to the opposite across the road. He leaned forward to see over the wagon’s roof ahead and listened to the sharp singing. Then, he produced it quietly himself to harmonize with the above flock.

When the keys were right in his mind, his whistle grew a little louder. He got a reply, returned it, then got another from one of the few small birds. He called again, pitching it curiously. There was a lull, the birds drawing quiet before they fluttered overhead again, one of them breaking formation to dip down towards the Kelvic sitting at the edge of the wagon. The bird was a finch, and it came down to rest on Noah’s slowly extended forefinger. It landed, tiny talons gripping the eagle’s finger. Seemingly fearless, the bird let Noah’s other hand come up to stroke it’s head gently. Then, Noah cooed, catching the finch’s attention all the more. It called back in a quiet way, staying there.