The Unicorn gazed out of the window of leaves and onto the unfamilliar shape in the middle of her meadow. It was slumped against the far side of the clearing, leaning against a rather small tree. The Unicorn stepped closer and focused on the crumpled form before her. Her cloven hooves made no sound in the soft soil as she stepped closer to the mystery lying no more than six meters away from her. She paused, and studied what appeared to be the chassis of a towheaded man. His deep brown eyes stared at nothing and his face was shrivled in something that looked like sorrow. She stopped suddenly and felt sick. "Lír," she whispered to herself. Indeed, it was the orphaned Prince of Hagsgate. Or what used to be Hagsgate. Now he was drooped against the sturdy sapling, his head lolling to one side and his mouth slightly ajar. The Unicorn caught her breath but she held her ground.
Lír's chest was slowly rising and falling in a frighteningly monotonial rhythem. He hadn't been able to smile in months and his heroic good looks have deteriorated, making him look more and more like his foster father; angry and lost. He could barely eat since whenever he thought of the Unicorn his innards tightened and left him doubled over in pain. It wasn't long before people began to just avoid him altogether naming him the town looney. He then started wandering through the forests, hoping to see her. The Unicorn. Amalthea. He would stumble on roots and rocks looking for her silvery hair, her pale skin. Her little smile.
A light zepher blew the Unicorn's mane and she whinnied and dantily stomped her feet. One of her hooves clipped a stone and a loud click was heared throughout the feild. The prince looked up and fixed his red-rimmed eyes on the spot where the Unicorn hid. The felt his eyes on her though her could not see her - yet. Her horn flashed in warning and she stumbled back. For every step he took forward she took one away.
"Who is there?" He whispered loudly. His tattered and torn clothes hung losely from his thin body and his cheeks were hollow and ashen. "Amalthea? Amalthea. Amalthea!"
Now she tured away from him and galloped away. "Get away! Go away!"
"Now, what did I tell you?" Molly called from behind the magician. She was impatiant and getting on Shmendricks' nerves. Swallowing his scowel he truned to her, a faux grin plastered between his thin cheeks. "We passed it!"
"Look! Look! We went right past it!"
"A map isn't so difficult to follow. How could you have let this happen?"
She jumped. "Now, don't you go yelling at me, you're the one who's been there before. You said you knew the way. Yes, I am upset and I certainly have every right to--"
He took her by the shoulders. "Molly!" His long nose pointed at her like a sword. "Molly, we have not passed it. I know my way."
"Well you are mistaken. See," she pointed to the map, "Glorin. And from what I can see, we're here," she tapped on a spot about three inches from Glorin.
"Yes, dear, we are here. But, you see, we are not going to Glorin. We are going to Glorick."
Molly peered down at the map sheepishly and saw that Shmendrick was right - they were past Glorin but heading steadily toward Glorick. Silently she folded the map up, slid it into her purse and trailed sheepishly behind the now cocky magician.