he did not answer her at first.
he had heard her coming— smelled her before that. the breath of blossoms where none yet grew. foreignness, too fine for dirt, made flesh.
his ears flicked once, the only concession to her question. and still he grazed.
the grasses here were bitter with frostbite, half-revived in the thaw. they tore when chewed, too loose in the root. he tore them anyway, and swallowed.
not until the next mouthful was swallowed did he lift his head.
the black stag turned slowly, and his eye found her.
dainty thing, he said, voice like tree-bark breaking, unused and half-rotted.
his one antler curved like a sickle against the fog.
he regarded her— her gilded hide, the way she carried her sorrow like perfume.
it will remember your scent.
his breath hung like smoke.
eat, soffinas said at last. or it will remember your bones first.