when at long last the golden stag shuts his eyes, it is with the comfort of being surrounded — by women who call him theirs, by men who look to him for guidance and by children who will play under his watch come morning.

when he opens his eyes again all is dreadfully quiet— no peaceful intake of breath, no warmth of does at his flank. jubilant is perceptibly and undeniably alone.

but it is not the does he misses, nor the fawns. his dreams are haunted— eyes of aquamarine and molten silver. a red stag dances there, just out of reach. jubilant sets his jaw and stands, determined to forget.

a scent both familiar and foreign catches his attention next; a doe not spoken for.

seven days and seven nights he trails her without rest, patient and inevitable. evening of the eighth day he finds her grazing, tail flagged and head peacefully low. examination finds her comely, trot stagnating as golden stag draws nearer.

a peaceful snort, announcing himself. shake of impressive rack, meant especially to catch her eye. breath pluming, green meets sweetened amber. wolves around. spoken in accented common. i will stay. an offer.