The Flower Diaries; Chapter fifteen

He is small, he knows this, but he isn't weak, he is merely...delicate.

And very much passive.

He isn't big like the other deer, but it doesn't matter to him.
He makes it up in spirit.

Heart drumming in his chest, the brush crackles and breaks with his racing, holding himself low to the ground, a flash of blue in the undergrowth.

For once he wishes Hummingbird was with him.
Maybe he could throw the annoying feather-ball at this stag and distract it.

In the end it seems to tire of him, and with a sigh the buck retires to the idol, trotting through the streams of water to cool his body before plopping down beside it.
It smells strongly of lotion here.

After a time he stands, inspecting himself in the water out of boredom.

He's a pretty creature, but that isn't what he notices about himself.
He's searching for traces of his humanity.

He clings to memories, shreds of his past life, he can't remember much, but he remembers important things, how he looked, his time with Jergens, he remembers that he grew flowers, and that Jergens can't cook.

The wind ruffles the longer ice coloured fur of his chest and belly.
He remembers his hair was blue, but which shade?

He thinks it must have been somewhere between the colour of his belly fur and the fur of his back.

His hooves slip down resting in the water, they're pretty, like unpolished sapphires, almost clear but, not.

Ears flick, a stag and doe run by, close, too close, and he takes off to the comfort of the birch forest.
He grew up here, this is where he spent all of his time as a fawn, in the comfort of the grasses, they still hide him well.

a sound, he freezes, looking around slowly, a leg held up, ready to push him forward in a flurry of turquoise fur if needed.

Nothing, it's nothing.

No...

He lays, pressing himself to the ground.

Jergens!

He pounces up, slathering nuzzles and happy words upon the red stag, chattering away at him, bounding at his heels like a little terrier dog, leading him towards his favorite place, at the centermost point of the flower triangle.

He is forced to stop.

A deer? yes, he attempts to skirt around it.

But it follows.

'no' he says.

it doesn't help.

His head lowers, showing the literal crown of thorns he wears.

'No.'

firmer now.

He's small, and he does not like to fight.

But he is still a stag.

And he still can.

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