now meet me by the mountainside; any

[Mauve]

mother tells them of the two gods—

(She does not notice time stop, of course. 
What a funny trick played by a funny god.)

She is none the wiser. Somewhere nearby, she knows Fleece is there—even if she is not, it always feels that way to her. Above are wide, open skies (home of the bone-white moon-man and the lemon-yellow sun-lord). On either side, spreading out like a wooden army eating the world entire, thin and fat trees stand. They do not grow but wait, dormant and achy in the cold. Below her is snow, wet and bright white.

And everywhere else, are the gods.
Her gods, two;

The Mother. Her mother’s god, and her mother before her, and even farther back. A family tree that Mauve cannot follow before her mind is jerked in a wild direction. And she is gone. 
(Ahhhhroo-oooooo.)
The Coyote spirit. Her father’s god. Their god—even mother and Fleece (who, mother says, is just like her). They are prey to the coyote—even Mauve is, to be fair, because she is but half-dog. They are all in obeyance to that cycle, and a hundred others, too.

Or so mother says. Sometimes mother can be boring, but Mauve entertains her nonetheless. It seems important.

She runs, as she usually does. She knows (because mother has said so) that the clock is ticking. There is so only so much time left to enjoy the cool, clean air before the world rolls over and warms itself up. Home is always warm. There is never snow at home. Mauve, decidedly, enjoys snow. She laughs as she goes. Those yaps are half yips as she tries and fails to drag that canine from its hiding place.

One day. 

If she ever adventures, it is only in her dreams. More than dreams, though, they are such waking, wanting things. She is nose-down and tail-up, sniffing rocky cracks for a comforting scent—for a pack member she misses so completely it hurts. She can only howl and hope the message reaches the right ears.

(Hello out there! Where are you?!)

One day.

She smells Hawke before she sees her. The winter forest is so much more blank than the summer one. Or spring. Or even fall, when things are becoming earthier and earthier—and then yucky. She thinks so anyway Mother does not. She follows the scent, quiet as can be (to Mauve, everything can be a game; everything can be a stalk), and finds her inclined skyward, sunning her face. The peacefulness halts the game of surprise.

“Hawke?” her voice is cheery, a bit raspy, as if just slightly overused. She knows the girl a bit, but for young ones, a bit can often be enough. Her strange cottontail wiggles, side-to-side, once or twice as she speaks, “you are looking merry today.”

PICTURE BY PRISS ENRIQUEZ