She lay, gasping in the snow. Her mane was as white as the ice beneath her, although her body was the colour of butter milk.
Red oozed out of an arrow wound. Francis looked away as he grabbed its shaft and pulled.
Too weak to move much, she snorted her pain rather than wriggled.
And then she was still.
The boy patted her handsome face, tears streaming down his cheeks and leaving icy rivelets down his face.
“My poor champion. Thank you for saving my life.”
The Hunter stepped back into the woodland.