Fjörd

This is his life now, he finds. It's solitude, at first, a lone sprawl of the mountain's cold shoulder. He fits well amongst the fallen rocks and crumbled boulders buried under heavy snow, but his eyes give him away immediately.

It's how Francis found him, by stalking those piercing yellows. He pounced, and, in a swift moment of realisation, they both recoiled. 

Is this not what destiny is? To find a friend, a partner, a mate, amidst nothing?