sing this song, when everything is gone.

[Meyer]

He’s not sure how he got here, not sure what had happened to her. All he knows is that he is alone now. A weak child, he has only grown weaker from lack of care and malnutrition. Barely past the weaning stage, his dam had disappeared without so much as a final glance and young and weak as he was, the bay colt had struggled to survive. Sequestered in the forests between territories, the barrenness of winter has flushed him out in a final effort. It’s growing dark earlier now. He pauses to lean against a withered trunk, the breath in his lungs like fire. He would just rest here a moment, just a moment and then he would be on his way. A lone wolf howls in the distance. He pays it no mind. If the predator finds him he will stand little chance against it but neither can he afford a sprint through the stark and dangerous wood. The birches stand close to one another, silent sentinels set against an eerie background. Fear creeps into his child’s heart, for the darkness is growing and with darkness comes certain death. He shoves away from the supporting tree, resolve glistening in warm brown eyes as his heart thuds a coward’s beat.   If he just lies here, breathing – in, out, in out – maybe they won’t notice him. Maybe they will not notice the harsh curve of his ribcage; maybe they won’t hear the shuddering breath in paper-thin lungs. He will die here, he thinks, and that will be fine. Stick-thin forelegs shift in weak emphasis, brushing leaf litter aside in a struggle that quickly becomes absentminded. He’d slipped and fell some time ago, starved muscles unable to fight the creeping cold. His small, frail body has frozen to the cold dirt below the pine tree but he can no longer feel it. Death has begun to seep into his veins, warming it with a soft, insidious promise. Meyer smiles faintly, shifting again, the ground tearing away a piece of half-healed hide from his hip. The blood grows cold with frost before he notices the faint throb at his hip but there is nothing he can do. Dazedly, he awaits the end to his suffering.