Fox

Desolate.

The landscape stretched. Blank and unwavering.

He squinted at the bright expanse. He hated it here. He felt banished, guilty of something. Perhaps he was.

He was a saviour. A king among people.

He looked at the empty sky. Blue.

Nothing.

Days of nothing.

Expectation and anticipation were expected and anticipated.

But always nothing.

He went over to the ice hole. He had set a line optimistically. Empty.

He needed to send his weekly message but the fox had not returned.

He went back to his home. Another day waiting.

With a click of his fingers, the flame lit and warmth suffused the room. He was hungry. Fish? He would have chicken.

As he tore meat from the drumstick, he thought how bland food made by magic was. Dull. Dry. Ironic. Magic was so revered as a power, the expectation would be succulent meat, full of flavour, juicy and saliva-inducing; to be slurped.

He put the drumstick down, remnants of meat still visible, hanging like tatters off the bone. Hunger was kept at bay but longing was a vibrant ache.

The fox was near. He sensed it. Or another living presence. What else could it be? Unless it was the Hoards.

He frowned. Scratching at the door. Click. He approached the door in a shimmering bubble.

Fox. Was this what he'd felt?

It sat back, eyes sharp. Watching.

Not his fox.

A voice.

"I see you."

In his head.

Her.

Wariness now.

"I am coming.'

And the fox ran.