Rakt was slower by choice. Lochan had always moved fast, bounded forward and ahead to see as much as possible as he could. But Rakt stayed behind, trailing stardust and breathing heavily. His gate was slow and determined, his body weighted down by pounds of fur that Lochan did not have. It was Orangemoon, Frostfall was drawing close, and the whole trio was growing out a thicker coat but Rakt had simply been born with one.

It was beautiful. Ashamin had woken at the sunset and seen his two companions huddled close, the gentle details of Lochan's delicate features lost in the folds and fuzz of the reddened fur of his new brother. Rakt, already almost Lochan's dwarfed size, was completely serene. He was noble, majestic even. Ashamin had guarded them the whole day, watched them with care. When the sun set, the two young cerndyr had lifted their tails and risen on thin legs to walk.

Thus, the three of them had set out into the rising evening and started on a path to wander. After Rakt's birth the three had taken time alone and within the confines of the cave to learn of each other: now, they needed to learn of the outside world as a family.

With every step, Ashamin thought of that word. Family. It had meant something small to him once, but now with Lochan and Rakt, with Rexanna's no their child on the way, family was larger. He picked across the snow and left deer prints behind, prints accompanied by those of his companions. How many more would follow? Was it good to have so many shadows, left to melt in the harsh light of day?

No, perhaps he should hide them in the dark. And Ashamin may have--may have kept his feelings within--were it not for the flickering of light in the distance. Lochan pulled them towards it with urgency; Rakt followed with a lazy, slow pace, as if he already understood fire's original spark.

As they grew closer and the light became a flame, the flame a fire, a familiar shape stood out as a silhouette before it's bright. She cast shadows on the snow that bled into the night. These were fitting, fleeting marks for Zandora to make.

Just seeing those traces of her hurt. Ashamin's breath caught, and were it not for the persistence of his companions (who walked past and towards the flame, revealing Ashamin's position behind her) he would have turned his long tail and run. She was the last thing he could see right now, the last thing he could handle. He had hurt so many, been hurt, and soon he would be the father of a child. His jittery, scared heartbeat leapt in his throat and out it, finding its way towards the chest of the mare he'd once broken to the point of bleeding. How would her heart beat now? Had the ribs healed, the hurt gone away? How could he face her now?

How?

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