Sigurd's Saga

In the brutal nape of an icy giant, two brown deer lay in the snow. One was of small size, the other obviously a doe that was battered quite hard.
Both were very much emaciated.
The rattling breath of the doe seemed to embody the heartbeat of the earth itself, in, out, in out...
And little Sigurd, curious as he was, peered around at his surroundings. His large, black eyes were as pure as the snow itself.
The doe nuzzled him weakly, her warmth barely warming them up in their nest within the wall of the cold castle. The howling winds of the winter around them battered the walls of the forttress, yet only hunger hit them.
Sigurd licked at the ribs poking out from beneath the once luxurious pelt of the doe. The lone tree they'd long since scraped clean of bark loomed ahead, like a beacon of hopelessness and hope in the winter around them.
Although Sigurd's mind couldn't process all of it at the time, he knew one thing stark clear in his mind:
If they didn't get help soon, they would die.
The low growl of the doe's stomach thrummed against's Sigurd's head, soothing like a metronome. Every night he fell asleep against his mother's stomach, feeling the warm flow of blood underneath the fur. Stubs of his antlers poked out of his head, yet he had nobody except for his mother to show them off to, as all of his friends had either died or departed to a better life in the lands to the south - south of the former grandeur of Corax, where all animals lived in harmony.
Long before, they had been part of a massive herd of deer, where food never ran out. The dominant buck had always been very fair, chosen only by seven trials of pureheartedness and virtue. Yet, one season, the leaf-bare came three moons too early, wiping out several of the weaker deer and bringing down their food to a trickle. The dominant buck had made a decision: he would travel with his most loyal followers to the lands south to see if they could forge out a better life in the world below. Although long ago, their Spirit Stone had been stolen by great evils and they were forced to live in the frigid expanse of Corax, he believed the sudden leaf-bare was a sign from the gods that it was time to move back.
His words were quickly dismissed as folly.
So it was, the dominant buck leaving for Jamaa and his followers trailing behind. A new, aspiring buck succeeded in the Seven Trials and began to lead the herd. However, that year, leaf-bare lasted much longer than usual, overlapping the usual start of greenleaf, skipping newleaf altogether.
This devastated the herd, exterminating 80% of the total population to starvation, hypothermia, and attacks by wild wolves. Those who tried to retrace the footsteps of the group going for Jamaa did not return, probably claimed by death, as they had promised to come back and take everyone with them once they rendezvoused with the original group.
Now, Sigurd and his mother were the sole survivors, and even they would die in a matter of days... or sooner.

Days later, when Sigurd was chattering his teeth in yearning for a good root to chew, he felt a sudden silence within him.
A chilling silence. A silence of pure despair, emptiness and misery.
Then, he realized the metronome was gone, replaced by an icy feeling spreading over him.
He turned his head towards his mother, and saw something he would never forget.
Ever.
The sight of her unblinking eyes stung his heart like an icy arrow plunged in mercilessly, speeding up the icy feeling spreading across his fur.
Suddenly, Sigurd, blinking away the grief as he always had whenever somebody he knew perished, realized his vision was dimming. His heart was slowing, his breath coming out as a wheeze, and his mind crumbling to an extremely addled phase.
His memories of better times whirled by like the brisk gust of a stormy day, one by one...
Wheeze.
The last breath.
The last, dreaded breath.
Sigurd was floating.

Sigurd awoke in a soft bed of animal leather, a brown orb laid gently on his chest and a warm feeling spreading through him.
He got up, and looked around.
Flutes, like the ones that his mother used to tell him about before the chill, were in his room. But these reed flutes were playing themselves, tooting out a pleasant tune with a background of water trickling in the background - the purposed lullaby of Cosmo, the koala Alpha of the lands to the south.
He got up, and realized his veins were flowing with power. The brown orb had disappeared, taking the sensation of pleasant feelings with it, but he still felt in his prime. A soft carpet of grass covered the floor, and when he ate some, to his surprise, he wasn't very hungry, and the grass grew back where he'd taken some from the soft dirt.
In the corner, on another cot of soft leather, his mother lay, sleeping peacefully. He almost cried out, then realized she looked deathly tired. It was best not to disturb her, as he'd learned the hard way years before.
His rump still ached from that wallop.
The temperature within the room was perfect, reminding him of gentle summer breezes in the grazing lands the herd traveled to during the summer. He recalled the cycle of lands, where they would go one place for greenleaf and leaffall, then travel to another for leafbare and newleaf while the other land rejuvenated. It had been a perfect cycle, at least until the chill.
Room?
He looked up, and saw that the ceiling was covered with painted clouds that really floated across the ceiling, paint birds flying around, sometimes disappearing into the walls, where they hid until they came out later. The sun radiated its painted rays, and he could actually feel its great warmth nuzzling his fur, and a breeze ruffle it. The clouds didn't go in a monotonous circle, either, hiding like the birds. Sometimes a few fat, blue drops of paint would splatter from a cloud onto the floor, where it was absorbed like real water. Where they landed, tulips, daisies, dandelions and other field flowers sprouted and grew in seconds, but never wilted.
The walls were a grassy green, with wondrous painted vines and trees on it, with the leaves moving in the breeze and the chirps of the birds coming out seamlessly.
There was only one explanation to that.
Magic.
He glanced at the door, and immediately it flew open. Incredible!
But first, he looked at a mirror propped against the wall, and gasped.
His eyes were rustic, his fur ruffled ruggedly, and best of all...
"I have antlers!" he cried.
He held up a hoof, which immediately hummed with energy. When he stomped it down on the ground, shockwaves spread through the ground, rattling the entire room.
He gasped again, then mentally chided himself for being so emotional. True bucks weren't emotional. Not at all.
Those were the true powers of a leader destined to lead. The stomp that could shake a legion head to toe.
His majestic antlers were much to look at, so he looked at the mirror again, butit was gone.
Huffing with exasperation, he went out into the hallway.. and saw something.
All of the Alphas rushing out of rooms (LaSalle had wires sticking out of her head for no reason, there was a cream pie on Graham's face and Peck was muttering "Awesome. Awesome!"), embracing Sigurd with open arms.
He was an Alpha.
The majestic Deer Alpha Sigurd, leader of Jamaasians.
He would lead.
He would fight the evils he'd learned about from fairy tales.
He would have worth.