Stone Circle And the universe reigned again.

His body convulsed, and he wished it was all a dream. He wished he hadn't been there when the herd had erupted over the ledge, wished he had not been caught up in the slurry of spidering limbs and flowing, frantic bodies. That he was still sleeping somewhere safe and warm beside his siblings, or even alongside the three-legged woman; he thought of her in fits too, incongruent terrors between gasps as he gagged on bile. If he hadn't been so bold — if he hadn't thought himself immune — if he — Child.

A stranger's voice.

It is okay, they rasp to him, giving him a new thing to focus on that is so far removed from the chaos he had outrun; he does not fully comprehend the voice, the tone, the space around himself — but Mesa wheezes and breathes, then tries to lift his attention to the dark shape as it comes in close. His thundering heart does not want to relax, his eyes are wide and bright and manic, so when he looks at the stranger he doesn't see the concern on her own face nor the stone-grey marbling of her fur. The expressive brows, the October-sky eyes. Soon he feels something graze upon his back and tries to squirm, but his body refuses to listen; he lays sprawled before her and must accept her comfort whether it is consensual or not. He heaves again — only air, this time.

It does help to have someone near even if they are a stranger, as the presence of the wolf gives Mesa someone to study, which takes his mind off of the alien faces of the elk. The woman smells like fresh green grass and cold, although cold is not exactly a smell; it is like the scent of the wind higher up the mountain, he thinks. There is something deeper there too, like pine smell, but not quite — and by focusing on these little details his breathing slows down, his body calms. He feels an overwhelming, consuming exhaustion that spreads like vertigo through his brain. The boy thinks he might pass out right there beside the stranger, and tries his best not to let himself sleep.

When he can, he gathers his wits and tries to speak - but sputters, breathes, rasping back to the stranger: Where...? His eyes are wide and dull, like frosted glass, and he blinks rapidly to clear the haze from them.