He was barely grown; a new sapling risen in the chill of autumn's morn. She was older than him, a summer tornado that swept him into her wake, one sunwarmed afternoon. And now there were seedlings that would grow.
He fretted at the feet of the stag, his throat closed with fear, and eyes beseeching as worry of frost and snow weighed upon his joy. The cold was not good for seedlings and he worried that he had let emotions blind sense. He didn't know what he might do if the chil--a choked request, caught in his teeth.
"Hush, son," the toothy stag pressed a firm touch against the kiokote's forehead. "The children shall survive, indeed they shall thrive in health and cold. And while they follow the wind, courageous, they shall always have the roots that bind them to their parents." That said he began to hum, gentle, until the kiokote slipped into slumber.
