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He races through fields of golden wheat, mane streaming like a heraldic flag. A pair of swallows loop and soar against a backdrop of cornflower blue, catching lazy insects and enjoying the early autumn sunshine. It’s a scene of pastoral beauty—something out of a fantastical dream.
Save for the baying of the hunting hounds.
His heart pounds to the same rhythm as his frantic gallop, each laboured breath billowing outwards from his flaring nostrils. Although his cloven hooves barely leave a mark upon the earth and the tall stalks of wheat conceal his lithe, goatlike body, the dogs remain fixated upon his trail. The culprit is a thin gash along his left flank, where a “lucky” arrow grazed his flesh. His opalescent blood smears against the crops, carrying his scent right to their keen noses—and, in turn, to their human masters.
If they catch him, they will kill him. Not for his meat or hide, but for the spiralling, foot-long horn that juts proudly from the centre of his forehead. Ever since mankind learned of their horn’s ability to purify water and nullify poison, unicorns—an already scarce species—have been steadily disappearing from this land. He is determined not to be next.
Then – he spots her. A peasant girl, dressed plainly, standing in front of a cottage at the edge of the field. She holds her hand out towards him and—against all reason – he feels compelled to approach. So – he approaches her, ears pricked with curiosity. Something about her presence promises safety in a way that he doesn’t understand, but feels deep within. A fog settles over his brain, quietening his panicked thoughts, and he remains calm and placid as the girl closes the gap between the two of them. Her delicate fingers comb through the wispy beard beneath his chin and his eyes close involuntarily.
He does not see the sadness behind her smile.
He does not hear the triumphant call of the hunter’s horns.