A cool wind blew over the downs. Over the past hour, the temperature took a nosedive and became so frigid that the rabbits resorted to huddling up together just to preserve the warmth that was slowly leaking away from their bodies. Thistle has never felt something that cold before and wondered if it could be the winter he had always heard about. But where was the snow?

Movement in the fog suddenly caught his eye. There, only about 15 feet from where he was standing, and where the fog thickened into a dense wall, a silhouette moved to and fro across the foggy landscape; it skittered to the left, dashed to the right, spun around in circles, and then stopped at the fog wall. It was close enough now that thistle could make out the shape of a rabbit.

Intrigued the young buck hopped down near the border and stopped a foot away from it.

The rabbit was much bigger than he had first assumed; it's dark figure towered over the poor buck. Dark red eyes flared down at him chasing him to step back, perturbed by its unfamiliarity.

Then it spoke in an ironically mellow and feminine voice, "It is okay little one. Harmed will not be you. An explanation for you simply wishes I. From this land toiled and from this land returns before you."

Thistle was caught off guard at the way she spoke (at least he thought it was a she). Her words felt unnatural, yet so familiar. Was it her scent that he was now noticing that triggering this? And why?

"My dad told me not to talk to strangers."

"Stranger? Not I! Your mother is me! Gone the flesh, But spirits be. I live non'memory"

The young buck moved and rearranged her words until they made some sense. Although the way she talked still disturbed him.

"I-I still don't understand. How could you be my mother? She's been dead since I could remember."

"True is what described by you. Taken by sickness. A Tragedy. Distressed was your father, and took you into care. My sweet thistle can't you see?"

"A sickness? Is that how she died? I'm going to ask my Father-"

The doe tensed up. "NO." she hissed.

Thistle obeyed out of fear of getting on the doe's bad side. His weariness of her only grew.

"Fool you are Thistle. Do you not see how here you stay? Brought us the magic that brought you back." Her voice became biting, Thistle flinched.

"Magic?" Thistle was beginning to become more befuddled by the second. Magic? Dad told me magic wasn't real. "I thought that was the stuff of myth."

The doe nodded her head, "perhaps, maybe. But you see, none of our worlds is like yours. It rules are here,"

"That makes no sense." He said flatly.

His "mother" remained silent.

"Can you talk normally please?"

"Trivial answers you ask, no need at this time, but there is woe across the lands. A creature in the fog that hates of all. Not of a rabbit but of a predator. Your help needs we."

"What?"

"Distressed are thee, dear, thistle. Follow me, I'll show you what I mean." The rabbit raised a paw, beckoning the young rabbit to follow.

"I don't trust you,"

The doe cocked her head, "Whatever not for?"

"I don't know what my mom looked like. I'm not going to just trust someone who says they have been dead for seasons."

The doe chuckled (or whatever the rabbit version of a chuckle is).

"You're a smart one Thistle. Your father, speedwell, taught you well. Have you not noticed, thistle, you never told me your name?"

Thistle paused to process the information. It was true, he was so bewildered he didn't notice it.

"And your fathers."

Yet Thistle wasn't entirely convinced yet. He asked a question that only his real mother would know.

"What happened to Speedwell that caused him to be so attached about me?"

Part of him hoped that she knew the answer, that he could finally see why his father was the way he was. He could hardly wait for her response.

The doe's eyes dropped. Thistle's heart skipped a beat. He didn't mean to make her sad.

"Gone the ones before you. In a tragic tale of woe. Speedwell Id's driven by his failures,"

"The ones before me?"

"Yes. Before the day you've been born, four others had been. But lo troubled times upon the warren fell. Hunger and disease abound, I died along with them."

At this the doe fell silent once more, her face now stoic, unwavering. A hint of sadness in her eyes.

Thistle looked down too. He'd always thought he was the only one. That his father was just the way he was because, well, that's how he had always been.

"But in the past, it shall stay. For now a new challenge at paw. Your deliverance from the fog found, not at length but out and alive. The breath of its capture."

"Huh?"

"Follow." The doe said no more and walked away back into the fog.

Do I trust her?

###

The two walked through the fog-covered landscape without a word for quite a while. Each staring forward, the buck following the doe silently, Not to make a sound. In the distance, a twig snapped. They both looked. Was something following them? No. They relaxed on went on their way.

Soon they came across a thorny barrier around the woods.

"Now Careful," Thistle's mother said, "I don't want you to get hurt."

She stood on her hind legs and scanned the area, her ears perked, "Not here,"

Thistle began to feel uneasy again.

"Matters not. Here, crawl underthy with grace, careful must be you."

Thistle obliged. He got as low to the ground as his legs would allow and began to creep under the thorny barrier. His breath was unsteady as he felt the thorns scrape against his fur. Slowly he stood back up.

"All's well?"

"Yes"

"Good. Continue let us"

As they progressed the trees around them started to get thinner and thinner until they were completely gone, leaving the two alone on a flat grass plane. It continued for quite a while before the doe ordered thistle to stop.

There in front of them, just 5 feet away, the ground suddenly stopped.

"Here are we, Thistle," The doe said, "Look over the edge. There is something I want to show you."

Thistle nodded his head and hopped towards the ledge wearily. From the break in the ground, it sloped down for 15 feet before coming falling off abruptly into the pit. He noticed that the grass near it was charred. Something had burned it. Peering over the young buck saw an astonishing sight that filled his heart with fear.

The pit was terrifying, nothing Thistle had even heard of before. The pit's walls were made of a horrifying material. Dirt mixed with bones. Rabbit bones. The walls curved into a bowl-like shape, converging together into a hole in the center, from it shot a long climb of flames that reached almost out of the center hole itself. Fog billowed from the fire.

Thistle was suddenly jerked forward out towards the pit. He let out a shriek as he started to slide down towards the cliff, scrambling to catch something. Anything. Desperately he splayed out his paws trying to slow his descent, but it didn't help in the slightest. Then something caught his eye; a root! He bit down onto it with his teeth, the root gave way for a good half a foot before coming to a stop just two inches away from the pit's drop off.

Shakily he picked himself up on to feet, still holding onto the root to keep him from sliding any further. Who had pushed him? But he already knew the answer. Stop the slope stood the shadowy figure of his mother, her red eyes glaring, and her lips drawn into a snarl. She had anticipated him falling into the pit, but the root had to exist in spite of her.

She spoke suddenly in a sickly sweet tone, "Just let go Thistle. That's all I'm asking."

He dared not speak, for he feared that letting go of the root would mean his demise. Instead, he looked daggers at her. Why would his mother treat him like this? Why she so awful? And more importantly, why did his father insist on her being such a sweet doe? A million more thoughts raced through his mind. His teeth started to feel uncomfortable. His jaw weakened, How much longer could he hold on? Desperately he looked to his mother for help. Hoping against hope that maybe she would have a change of heart. But she wasn't there.

She had left him for dead.