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Chapter Two
“When I'm good, I'm very good, but when I'm bad, I'm better.”
—Mae West
On the other side of the Mirror Pond, in a faraway realm and a distant time, a young male roamed aimlessly across the peninsula…
He was alone.
Always alone.
In the beginning, after he regained consciousness from the near-death struggle, he’d hidden himself from all potential threats as best he could. Dragged his sore, beaten, broken body to a small, hidden cave in the mountains, and stayed there until he either healed or died.
Miraculously, he did heal.
He ate the vegetation and berries that were accessible within a close perimeter of the cave. Sometimes, they gave him bellyaches, made him dizzy and dream strange things, think strange thoughts. But at least they didn’t kill him.
As he folded his legs beneath his body, tucked his head against his forelegs and closed his eyes, his ears twitched nervously, and his sides shuddered with barely suppressed fear.
Never let them see you hurt, my son. Never bow down.
He recalled the words so clearly. His mother’s words.
But he couldn’t, no matter how he tried, remember her face. He only knew that she was beautiful. Ethereal.
She didn’t look like him.
She was pale. Her skin glowed like moonstones. He was dark. Darker than midnight. There was no part of him that wasn’t, save the whites of his eyes.
Most of all, she was two-legged while he had four.
But he knew that she was his mother.
Even though she wasn’t here now, nor had she been there when he’d been attacked within an inch of his life, he didn’t blame her for not protecting him.
He was a male. He must be strong. It was his role to protect others. Especially the females. It was enough that the memory of her lilting voice soothed him in his dreams.
He wished he could fulfill her expectations and be the son, the male, she wanted him to be. He wished he was strong enough to stand tall, be brave.
But right now, with his head still ringing from the mighty stamp of the stallion’s hoof, his rump aching, and his ribs cutting into his insides with every belabored breath—he simply couldn’t stay on his feet any longer.
He was so sore and tired.
Hungry. Lost.
Alone.
Little by little, he regained his strength. His bones mended; his skin knitted. His muscles bulked up and elongated the taller and broader he grew.
But there was something wrong with him. Even as young as he was, he knew.
His mother was two-legged. The male who tried to stamp him into the ground was four-legged, but he had two arms. He was a mix of how his mother looked and how the young male himself looked.
Half of each.
Which confused the young male.
Occasionally, he ventured far enough away from the cave to explore, and he came across two-legged beings riding four-legged creatures like himself.
