Without good-bye he fled, breath bated and choked in his chest, tail streaming behind him, waving in apology as he bolted from the unfamiliar, jerking into the welcome rhythm of the run. Too often this happened, whirling around and flying over the frozen earth thawing to the heat of the non-existent sun, electricity pulsing through his body in volts of nerves and excitement, turning his tongue sour, until it lay like a dead slug in his mouth as his body tingled with testosterone-borne joy. It seemed his heart was being slowly crushed in his chest, squeezed flat underneath the overbearing weight of those who thought they knew him, pressured him into dreams he didn't want. Maybe he was in to the clique of the Basin, and everything had glowed with a new life, shining with a brilliance difficult to match, and for a while he had been happy, lingering on the fringes of civilization and watching. And then, everything was suddenly shallow and frilly, thin plastic hiding the dead bodies, and he wanted to throw up, and so he ran, the beat of his heart whispering coward to his ears.

Over white snow he glided fleet-footed, bounding with leaps like a fleeing gazelle, looking only to the south, never daring to turn his head. The stallion who had greeted him- if a few words could amount to a tedious welcome- had terrified him, sent his heart jack-hammering in his thin chest. If he were to write a description of him, Carnesîr would sing of the soul-seizing horror of the stallion composed of rippling shadow and cold blue eyes empty as an oyster without its pearl, how no doubt he was cut out in a hate factory and sold to the highest bidder.

Time passed without anything to tell of how much had trickled by, and so he went on through the days, running and sleeping, running and sleeping, until at last he realized he could run no longer, and slowed to a walk, the shards of his heart digging deep into his lungs and splintering into his chest, until blood was pooling in him, filling him up, and he was choking, sputtering on death, not wanting to die but wanting release. They clung to him, pale phantoms, ghosts of the past, memories that crowded and cluttered his dreams. When you want to release yourself, climb the tallest mountain and scream to the heavens, scream until you can breathe no more and watch the rage fall away until only the beauty is left. Galathil told him one day, when he ran through the trees, frantic. Carnesîr's father knew he was raising a coward, a weak-hearted lion, but still he pretended it was fine in their little family. Liar. "Ilanwa." The grullo growled, rumbling deep in his chest, for his father had been wrong as the perpetual night in this bizarre land.

The sun rose, and he was not surprised, not realizing quite how long the darkness had continued for, being relatively new to this world. He thought the night had simply been extraordinarily long.

The yellow eye fell again and he fled through the dark.

Grass turned to alabaster sand, and despite the lack of mountains, he stood and screamed as loud as he could until he ran out of breath, and then again he shouted, shedding the hate.

The wind swept away his voice into the night, so his cries of pain were silent.