I hate the Threshold.

It’s a thought that crosses my mind with each unwanted wretch I pass, with each remembered nook in which I see my mother and me, wooing some stranger or another. For some reason, I miss her desperately on this day, more than I have in what feels like eternity to a boy with so little time to compare the rest to – and I suppose that’s why I’m here, as if some part of myself is telling me to wait in the shadow of the tall trees, as if the damnable woman will come walking through at any moment.

She had taught me well the ways to carry myself in such a realm; I don’t give those unworthy of my attention anything more than a cursory glance, a face or two scowling or grumbling with hostility as I trot right on by them. I guess I can’t blame them for being frustrated – this is obviously a kingdom, and I remember being equally antsy to find anyone to tell me where I was when I’d stumbled upon the firefly wood some time ago.

But they aren’t welcome where I’m from, and I’m not the callous sort to stop and mock them for their inability to come back to the mountain – though certainly, I’ve known many who are, the awful mother that haunts my thoughts today likely one of them.

So I notice him, probably before he notices me, because he’s flashing the same bright metallic hue that marks both she and I.

I pause, ears playing about my crown and nostrils tasting deep of the cooled air here in the shade, every bit as lacquered in sweat as the poor bloke, but despite my uncomfortable body temperature, there is something about this fellow that makes me smile – I guess because there is something about him that makes me think of both my parents, his dextrous tail lined in ample fluff like my sire’s, his face baring multiple horns of a jagged and erratic nature, though his number one more than the onyx crowns my father wears.

Through the brush I rustle, all evidence of the fact that I can be quiet if need be lost on my utter lack of concern for sneakiness. The slow plod of the stag is easy to keep up with, and I do so, my head comically high in comparison to the droll angle at which he’d held his on first approach – and as he’s heading the right way to be out of the damnable forest, I figure its best to just keep on moving on.

Obviously, he’ll be coming home with me. Who in their right mind would say no?

"Good afternoon," I announce, rich voice lilting in good cheer, despite the melancholy which has fringed me all day, "and welcome to Helovia, assuming you’ve not been here long."


@Tamorin