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Falcondive stumbled.
In the sucking dark mud she had to struggle to pull herself upright again, and her piercing cry had broken the humming quiet before she could stop herself, a scream rent with rage and hurt and bewilderment and, above all, loneliness. Days had passed, now, since she had become separated from the others, and she had long since stopped crying out for Pigeon or Swallow's-Nest, since the words only got sucked into the damp air just inches from her face.
She thought of Pigeon most, of his flattering ways. He'd told her, when she first joined his tribe, that she reminded him of a white flower with the golden light of sunset pouring through its petals.
He wouldn't recognize her now. She was a solid muck-grey from head to foot, burrs in her long tail and tangling in her mane, and her usually fleet, sure hooves were unsteady and sore. Where was Pigeon? Where was Swallow? And where--this was most frightening of all--where, in this forsaken, tree-choked place, where was the horizon?
She clicked her tongue, and Brook pulled up alongside, the rangy cat's muzzle parted in a pant, his spotted sides heaving. He, too, was feeling the stress of this strange place. Neither of them had stretched their legs for days, and even now Brook was constantly flicking his paws in misery at the wet.
Falcondive fixed on an open space between two trees, just as she had been for days. She longed more than anything, despite her tired feet, to run. Instead, she walked on.
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