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He is not sure what happened to him before he woke up. It was right before winter - the ground was cold and hard, the grass brown and tasteless, hardly nourishing. It was night, the moon and stars obscured by the clouds. He can still feel the thundering of his lonely, uncertain heart. The hollow, aching sense of loss that set him gasping for air. It was not just that he was alone - it was that he knew with every certainty that there was something, someone, there before. Sometimes, if he closes his eyes and concentrates hard, he can nearly focus in on the shadows of the memories he knows have to be there …
Straightening his neck with the frustrated sigh of the sleepless, the lithe yearling unfolds and stretches, leaving the protection of the cave he had inhabited for the duration of winter. The sky has already begun to lighten, though the sun will not be up for some time yet. He moves south first, toward the rugged, blood-soaked lands he had explored only once. The paths are familiar, though now they are boggy in some places. The Field had been frequented by few others through the cold months, an attribute that had kept Meyer in place. When it had become apparent that he would only find strangers in the faces that he did see, he had taken to avoiding the others altogether, but it has proven more difficult since the season changed.
A mile or so south, he swings east and then turns back north. No one has ever followed him but he cannot remember the last time he did not feel like he was being watched. He scoffs, muscles warm beneath his shedding coat. Someone would have to care about him to care about where he went. The soft ground sucks and pulls at his hooves, splashing and coating his sides and underbelly as he jogs back toward the main Field. If he can make it back to the lake before dawn, he can have a drink and a swim.
There are too many of them. His light amber eyes flick from one to the other, some just as plain as he, others dark or brightly ostentatious. Sweat-streaked and mud-caked, he hovers on the forest fringes, long legs shifting underneath him. Discomfort and indecision curl in his belly, his short tail worrying his hindquarters. He cannot stay on his own forever, but the idea of living in society is a daunting one …
Straightening his neck with the frustrated sigh of the sleepless, the lithe yearling unfolds and stretches, leaving the protection of the cave he had inhabited for the duration of winter. The sky has already begun to lighten, though the sun will not be up for some time yet. He moves south first, toward the rugged, blood-soaked lands he had explored only once. The paths are familiar, though now they are boggy in some places. The Field had been frequented by few others through the cold months, an attribute that had kept Meyer in place. When it had become apparent that he would only find strangers in the faces that he did see, he had taken to avoiding the others altogether, but it has proven more difficult since the season changed.
A mile or so south, he swings east and then turns back north. No one has ever followed him but he cannot remember the last time he did not feel like he was being watched. He scoffs, muscles warm beneath his shedding coat. Someone would have to care about him to care about where he went. The soft ground sucks and pulls at his hooves, splashing and coating his sides and underbelly as he jogs back toward the main Field. If he can make it back to the lake before dawn, he can have a drink and a swim.
There are too many of them. His light amber eyes flick from one to the other, some just as plain as he, others dark or brightly ostentatious. Sweat-streaked and mud-caked, he hovers on the forest fringes, long legs shifting underneath him. Discomfort and indecision curl in his belly, his short tail worrying his hindquarters. He cannot stay on his own forever, but the idea of living in society is a daunting one …
