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Morg, a buck of two summers, had admired them from the time he could barely manage a gait.
He admired them for their sleek coats, which came in a spectrum of color.
He admired them for their many forms and faces.
He admired them for their bright and ponderous eyes.
He admired how they carved their own path through the forests he called home.
The rest of his kin, however, did not.
"You know not what they are capable of."
"They bring only destruction."
"You cannot understand them, just as they cannot understand you."
"There is safety in the forest."
And other such things, they told him countless times.
But he didn't care.
While the others hid from the carrion-eaters and teeth-gnashers and claw-thrashers, he would sit upon the bluff and watch them as they passed by.
Morg's obsession led to isolation.
The others of his herd shunned him, keeping their fawns from him during dinner and turning away when he spoke.
It hurt him.
But still, so deeply he was fascinated by these creatures that he would watch them day in and day out upon his bluff.
Everything in his life had a name, decided long ago by his forefathers who came many summers before him — everything except for these.
So he continued to watch them.
So his isolation furthered.
So he felt that maybe he would join their herd instead.
So it was, on a particularly hot eve of his third summer, that he finally worked up the courage.
He sat up by his bluff, watching as he did.
Eventually, he spotted one coming in the distance, twisting through the trees.
He pranced down to greet it, scaling down the sheer cliffside, coming to a stop in front of it, its bright eyes blinding him like the sun in the middle of the night.
It howled a loud, reeling scream, and then—
—silence, interrupted by the sound of a single, smaller being appearing from within.
Fated to meet, yet never know one another.