Deepwood Weald Locked in the Trunk of a Car

By the time he passed by the rocky edges of the mountain range, the afternoon had come again, bringing with it a close, sticky warmth than made him pant. While he was a forest-dweller, the weald held a closeness and stillness that made little, sparkling dust motes float on the sunbeams- motionless. The shadows were so incredibly dark, with the exception of the nearly blinding streams of light that pierced the dense foliage above him and made sharp-edged puddles of light on the ground that made him squint. How it could be so bright and so dark at the same time baffled him. 

This was, though, the farthest he'd been from the pack on his own. The usual assuredness with which he patrolled his trad-worn borders had slowly dissipated, after having had his first moment of feeling like I'm free. But like a child left home alone for the first time, the novelty of the solitude wore off, and he was left feeling quite exposed and vulnerable. He was ready for this, he told himself. His Mom had gone much further than this when she'd been his age- and with all the talking, and the posturing and the rough-housing he'd done to establish himself as the strongest one of the yearlings...Where had his confidence gone? So for some hours he was left walking, and feeling ashamed for having ever believed the notion that he might be even remotely brave.