He still had nightmares about the fall.
He could vividly remember that horrific leap he’d taken off the cliff-face, under the piercing gaze of his expectant father, in a vain attempt to prove his worth. He could still clearly recall his terrifying descent, that fleeting moment of falling as the air whistled and roared around him and his wings struggled to keep flight, and he could not forget the sharp, excruciating lick of pain that had shot through his body upon his making impact with the ground. But it was the memory of the disappointed eyes of his father, bearing deep into him as he lay twisted and broken upon the ground, which plagued his nightmares. He had hated that look, but knew that for his failure he’d deserved it. He'd really deserved it.
For a while he had lain low, biding his time, regaining his strength. Sure enough, with time, his broken wings had healed, but, much to Attunga’s frustration, the prospect of them returning to their original strength so soon looked bleak. Full recovery, he knew, would take more time, more work. Although the bones in his wings had mended, the skin was still heavily bruised, sore, and extremely tender, and had turned an angry blue-purple colour (as a small bald spot amongst the feathers on his left wing revealed, much to his embarassment). He avoided flight as best he could; he was not frightened to fly again, but did not want to push his wings to the limit, them being in such a frail, fragile state.
Still, he was free now. His father had long left the family, his brother Laone had, as far as Attunga knew, disappeared off the very face of the earth, and, moons later, Attunga himself had left his mother and sister in the hope of achieving independence. Perhaps he’d take a liking to some mortals along the way. He highly doubted it; mortals were, after all, far inferior to gods, yet he was strangely curious about them.
He decided that tonight, with the vicious winds of a passing storm whipping the savannah, would be the perfect time to talk to one of the braver, stronger mortals. And so he waited, lying with his stomach pressed against the dark African earth, half-hidden between the swaying walls of the long grasses, eyes bright and tail flicking with anticipation as he wondered who would be daring enough, or foolish enough, to stray from the shelter of their dens and approach a God in the wake of such wild weather.
