Mountain
Distant roars echoed through the trees, spilling snow from weighty boughs and shaking the very air with their mournful, raging might. A small, white rabbit scurried through the snow, bounding away from the tree line into a small clearing. From the center of the clearing there rose a small hill, a quaint, snowy hovel built within. Glowing warmth streamed through the cracks of polished, wood framed windows, closed tightly as insulation from the cold of last night.
The determined hare skated across the icy brook bordering his caretaker's home, darting through the main gate and into the house proper, breathing heavily from its flight. It skid to a stop in front of a small, wooden door, and knocked frantically, promting muffled sounds of movement on the inside.
"H-Hello? Who's there?" a timid, female voice traveled through the door. The reddish-brown wood creaked as the door cracked open, revealing one, frightened, blue eye. "A-Angel?" Suddenly, the doorway was cast open, revealing the yellowiest, angriest, and most adorable hermit that ever walked on four hooves. "Where have you been?! I've been worried sick!"
Nonplussed, Angel Bunny thrust one foreleg forward, middle claw in the air.
Another roar shook the forest, and the rabbit scurried between his pony caretaker's legs, looking out into the snow-filled clearing anxiously. Not bothering to reprimand her fluffy ward, the yellow pony let out a quiet yelp and slammed the door with one hoof. Butter-yellow wings fluttering, she latched, locked, and secured six theft countermeasures of various shapes and sizes before bolting up a set of stairs to the upper level of her usually quiet, woodland home.
Angel was left alone, dazed, in the house living area, surrounded by various perches and holes and houses for the small and furry. A small fire sputtered in the fireplace on the east end of the room, and the tired—and still rather frightened, but he wouldn't dare mention it to anyone—rabbit sidled closer to the dying flames, taking comfort in the warmth they provided.
Outside, a beast tore along under the noonday sun, its terrible, yowling roar terrifying all in its path.
Mama was not happy. Not happy, indeed.
The Lady of the Forest was hunting him.
Grunting quietly, Pile shifted his—it truly was his now—pack from shoulder to shoulder. He could barely stand his legs were shaking so badly, his feet numb from crossing a small stream. Thrice he'd dipped his leather-and-cloth-bound feet into the below-freezing water: fruitless attempts at masking his scent as he stumbled wearily through the forest. An intense burning sensation stitched the man's side, constantly throbbing and itching as he trudged along: wearing him out further.
Roars in the distance… were they closer, now?
Pile looked back over his shoulder at the churned, melting path he left behind and tried to increase his pace. His stride became more erratic, leaving a more visible trail, and he cursed himself.
In Stalingrad he didn't need to worry about such things as leaving a trail. If one knew where to step—what well-worn paths to follow—it wasn't an issue. In the city, he was a predator among men. Here, though…
Here he was the prey.
Easy prey, at that.
Sunlight, taking advantage of a break in the canopy above, shined spitefully in Pile's eyes, forcing the tiring human to blink painfully. When the devilish light finally stopped its angry stinging, the reason behind the marksman's sore, mindless walking came into view: a mountain of grey stone—the only one in sight for miles around.
High ground. Something Pile was familiar with.
The base was close now: he could see the rising stone through the gaps in the dwindling trees. Distant, popping gunfire made Pile pause, cocking his head to listen, but the answering roar—definitely closer this time—spurred him onward. The mountain was survival. It was an irrational assertion, but the only thing keeping the exhausted sniper from simply flopping down in the snow.
Perhaps the Lady of the Forest couldn't climb.
Perhaps she wasn't hunting him at all, and was chasing other new arrivals to the forest…
Or maybe she knew the he was injured; that he wouldn't last long alone in her woods. He would keel over soon, and then… then she would find him.
Pile shivered violently, brushing his throbbing arm against the butt of his rifle. He snorted, trying to dismiss the thought, but no matter how hard he tried the feeling came back. The lioness knew something Pile didn't: the forest knew something Pile didn't.
The ground steepened and the sniper kept going, attacking the incline despite his waning strength. His vision tunneled until all he could see was the snowy shale before him, stretching up above into a fine peak. Tree branches brushed and snatched behind him, dropping snow onto his legs and boots. They were reaching for him—calling him back to a trail that would be his end. They knew.
And so it was that with thoughts of being watched by his own destiny, Pile began his ascent.
Fluttershy was afraid. That in itself wasn't much of a surprise, but it did little to change the fact that she had been trapped in her cottage since sunrise, refusing to leave the perceived safety of her bedroom.
"She was 'yellow' in the truest sense of the word," Rainbow used to say—still said. But for once, she had good reason to be frightened.
Mama raged in the wilderness near her home, crying out the loss of her child, and no amount of kindness or care—or baleful glaring—would stop her. Fluttershy knew this from experience: she had the scar to prove it.
A small knock on the door to her room made the tense pegasus flinch, burrowing further under her down comforter. She peaked out with one, sapphire eye. "Y-Yes?"
The door creaked open, and in waltzed Angel, steaming bowl of vegetable broth held in his small paws. He carefully bounced his way over to the bed, careful not to spill a single drop, before leaping onto the straw mattress. Skidding to a halt, he performed an abrupt about-face and flopped down onto the comforter, leaned back against the shivering lump that was his caretaker, and began drinking his soup.
Fluttershy blinked, watching him for a moment before sighing piteously to herself. Her gaze turned toward the open window: to the verdant green and pious white that stretched on forever; to the grieving soul stalking within.
In the distance, Dragon Mountain stood watch, a dark silhouette against the eastern morning sun.