All things want to open. [any]

[Neverwhere]

Her wandering continues. She is not content to remain in the meadow forever, watching deer and horse seek out grass beneath the snow. The horses have better luck, well, some of them. The ones with unusual strength, or those that can control fire and rejuvenation, those ones fare best, of course. The deer do not appear generally magical or different from any other deer, and so they scrape and paw as best they can. Most stay only briefly before returning to the forest, finding refuge in the dappled light where large oak and pine trees hold back the heaviest snows.

Neverwhere follows them, and one buck casts a disapproving look in her direction, waving his antlers once, twice, before turning away, slipping into the darkness. It is not an empty threat, though foolhardy. He cannot know by looking and smelling that she is largely a normal horse, but the rut makes them stupid, even as it grows late in the season. Heedless, the young mare continues to follow his more fleet, more silent path. The snow crunches and moans underfoot until it gives way to the softer ground of the forest floor. Here pine needles cover pine needles, layers and layers, slowly decomposing into each other and the springy ground that snow barely touches. Here and there, an errant drop of water falls with the briefest splash, a few spattering across her back and haunches, cold pin pricks. One falls directly between her eyes, and then she does stop, head jerking with a snort at the shock of cold.

Nearby, another crack echoes across the woods, bouncing off each tree trunk until it is impossible to know where it began, then a rushing noise, a WHOOMP, and silence, except for the startled crows cawing raucously. Through the occasional gap where an oak rises leafless into the canopy rather than the evergreen, she can see them, flying off and away to the east.

The mare snorts, loudly, and drops her head low, rubbing her face against a dark knee, rubbing glare away from wet eyes. Here she sees better The trees have killed the wind, and the sun is unwelcome between boughs and snow, coming down in shafts of weak white-gold to glitter here-and-there where water pools and ices over between root and rock. An ear turns east, where the river’s roar comes in, an insistent whisper the underlies all other sounds. In the canopy above the trees, add to the quiet cacophony. It seems quiet, and yet it is not, noises and talk carries in ways you would not expect, ricocheting off stone and wood so that it is easy to eavesdrop and remain unseen. If, that is, you care to remain unseen. Neverwhere has no such cares.