Barrow Fields castles in the sand, cradles in the trees

Coelacanth was disappointed, but her desire to please Titmouse outweighed her desire to press the issue. “Soon,” she whispered, her feathered tail wriggling deferentially. To lighten the mood, and hopefully coax him out of his funk for at least a little while, she dipped into a playful bow and leaned forward to bump her nose against the toes of his left forepaw. Then she whisked away, darting back as though to make sure he was following. When she was certain he was on her trail — whether or not he was chasing her or merely following along — she trotted further inland as though to prove her intentions were not to trick him. She only made it a few yards, though.

There, standing before the twain, was a young, wounded buck who’d seen better days. One hind leg was swollen, its scent sour with infection, and his left flank was battered with leathery-looking rips. It seemed he’d been the target of wolves before, but he’d managed to fight them off or get away. A glint in Seelie’s eyes suggested to Titmouse that today, he would not be so lucky.