The earth quivers. She breaks beneath his hooves, splinters of dusty bone becoming clouds in the slant of evening sunlight. The rhythm of his steps mingles with breath in an endless hymn and the walker walks on, ignorant of the steps ahead. He recounts those behind him in the quiet before nightfall but his ears prick toward the future, too, and a whiskered muzzle twitches so those whiskers catch the light.

   This forest smells of horse. The thick musk of their flesh clings to his throat; the thick paths left by hooves of past days lead through foliage and a fine covering of dried moss - for the air is hot. It presses his flanks like an animal, like a carnivore, and threatens lightning. The traveler’s hair crackles with this promise; his heart beats a little quicker when he thinks on it - the bright rush and the awful boom of nature’s wrath - but he pulls his mind together long enough to push his long legs forward. Strange scents and the tang of lightning offer no haven; he thinks, move. He thinks, I am not there yet. Many days have passed though since he knew his destination. Plans changed. Cataclysms threatened to thrust destinies upon him that he would not suffer. In the end, trust nearly blinded him and crippled he crawled from a place he knew as home and into the strange, vast world.

   He is newborn.

   He is infected with purpose. His face hurts, and his head jerks to the left as shadows move there, on that bad side, teasing him and brushing raw wounds with their soft breath. Recalling the joyful chorus of the wolves three days ago he snorts and moves ahead and the flash of his white limbs is brilliant in the motes of light. He is altogether brilliant - gold and scarlet, blind and brittle, a feast of light and life - but the oozing scabs on the side of his head detract from such a view. The proud cadence of hoof beats falters, too, as tired limbs grow clumsy and heavy with groggy weight. He barely recalls when the dust became moss or the plains became trees, but jagged mountains rear beside him and their shadows slip across his stained hide, darkening the orange to a hue like blood beneath a stormy sky. He breathes a long breath. Home is far away.

   Still, the traveler’s path is forward. He cannot see into the future but he welcomes it, this trail of hooves long past and broken sticks and bushes muscled to the side. He knows these things. His heart beat quickens with anticipation and not fear this time, though dark clouds rolling in render the shadows obsolete. It will storm. He will be discovered. Words will be exchanged. These things he knows. These things he welcomes.