The choices are few.

Souring his mouth is the taste of dismay, lovely dreams snatched away from him, leaving him lost and alone. He feels churlish, awkward and brittle, a crumpled, dead something that is far from where is belonged, pecked at by stubborn scavengers and attacked by the unknown, killed by deserting hopes. There is no sense of time encompassing him, nothing that whispers the clock is ticking, ticking, ticking, the seconds flying by faster and faster, that the minutes are trickling through his hooves. Perhaps what makes him confusing it the utter of lack of coherent sense to him; he is all collections of clashing thoughts and memories that roar like a tsunami against the present, until the future weaves with present and threads with the past.

The wind swirls, snagging on his mane, whispering that a choice is to be made.

All that he sees and taste is death, encroaching on his boundaries.

Take me home! He doesn't want any promise of safety and vague futures. What he craves is the rumbles of Galathil's voice, Lólindir's voice that whispers like the falling autumn leaves. Homesick, isn't that the word?

But it doesn't quite explain the pain wrenching his gut, twisting a knife into his heart, until something is rising in his throat, thick yellow bile that chokes him until he might just fall, pass out on the cold frozen earth. Everything is overwhelmingly unfamiliar; every mistake a disaster, a hurricane sweeping through his precariously built straw huts, the strands of yellow grass flying, lonely, through the deep gray clouds. He wished he stayed at home, even if by some warped sense of wrong loyalty, that he had not fled like a coward, a dog cowed with it's tail beneath its legs. Yellow-bellied liar, slimy oddball. I couldn't stay. They were pushing me away!

But he could have.

"Helovia," he sighs, turning the word into a deserted shelter of loneliness, a place for last chances. His eyes are turning wet, though he drives it away desperately. Then her breath is warm- and sweet- the scent of wet grass- hot on his cheek- and all his fears are vanquished by his beautiful angel, a savior, for just a moment. Her muzzle is soft and tickles him, and for a moment his lips quirk flippantly, nerves making him twitch away at her touch.

Her eyes are meeting his, and he glances downwards, wanting to hide his damp eyes.

"Hope..." Carnesîr murmurs. "I will come, elerrina." He uses the word quietly, knowing she will not understand it.

"I am Carnesîr."